To those who know me,  know that I have a  twisted sense of humor.  Aside from that I can also be downright vindictive, and the two in my case often come hand in hand.  It's a flaw that I can't change, not until it's beaten out of me.  (Trust me, it wouldn't be the first time) Anyway, a certain person in my community had done something ten times more criminal and stomach-turning that I had ever done in my life. 

As damning as my actions had been, that ugly side of me is laughing, wanting to rub the utter shame and pain the community had caused, himself rallying along with them.

 I want to tell him that it isn't so fun, to be suddenly so hated.  To be dehumanized by a single act.  Now, in my history, I've only actively taken part in one taboo act.  It was a drawn out calculated act in which I have no excuse; no reason to say that it wasn't me, that I was drugged or drunk.

  Now, this certain man, he's got the two excuses in the bag, along with a suicide attempt.  I'm left wanting his shame to last, as long as mine had.  His father has some power in the community and I could only imagine the shame his son has caused him.  Again, I see myself in my minds eye as that repellent teenager, giggling as some sort of twisted vindication has taken place.

At the end of the day though, it has nothing to do with me.  A terrible thing happened, and despite a possible change in their collective perspective in what I've done, the girl's life will never be the same.  Neither will he, or his father.

I did however write a poem, to signify this occasion.  Sitting here alone in my little duplex, it's all about me.

6

Shame, you've shaken it's hand

Stood hear and smelled its musk

and felt your stomach turn

 

Like a freshly made bruise

shame colors your pale skin

beaten by your own blood

as fucked as sex in church

 

Shame, a needy lover

clings to your thin arms

on your shoulders she's perched

 

Like frightened eys bleeding

Shame draws stares, gasps and fear

can look for a kind face

theres no one in your search

 

Shame, it's behind closed doors

You can relax but it

is what you think of first.

 

Before you think that what I write is not worthy of your eyes, or anyone elses, I have to tell you about a thing I do.  In every significant event in my tiny community, if it has affected me, I write a poem.  Two children died last year, it was the beginning of June and they had stolen a canoe.  They drowned trying to get back to shore. I wrote a poem about that.

At the same time, my taboo relationship was nearing it's end.  I didn't write a poem, but wrote every detail of it in a green book that I call my sex book. 

A man died when he drove into a lake in his ski-doo.  That was my first "significance" poem.  I showed it to my sister and she cringed.  She thought I was insane. 

Truth is, I find that this tiny community that I live in, everything is swept under the rug too soon.  People are still mourning, still tending to open wounds when the more conservative people have decided that it's time to hide the truth.  No one has time to absorb, to learn, to finish grieving, to move on. 

I choose to be the walking taboo, that which grates against the conservatives' nerves.  I've lived with a fragile reputation all my life, a thin veil of being a student.  Now, my rep's tattered, and I've been living with it for a year now.  I can't imagine anything worse than who I am now.

Well, that certain man certainly surpassed anything I've done.  It's a sad sad thing, and I'm sure that in my kindest place, I am horrified that anyone has done more that I had.