The Death of Ms. Hagley

I thought I’d feel reprieve;
some kind of soul relief
to find out she died,
crucified by slow breaths;
a painful death,

almost as scarring as
the beatings she left
on my extremities,
days in school while
everyone stared at me.

What does this mean
that I feel anger
she got to leave
before she stood and
faced accountability?

They’re all escaping,
age taking them down
minute by minute,
ticking time bombs,
their lips pursed with
the silence they’ve rehearsed.

Want to make a confession
before you try to enter
your imaginary heaven?

Did no wrong so
you’ve held on
to the denial,
shame,
the victim blame with
wings transparent
if not invisible as
they don’t exist
when you are
birthed from evil.

Into the dark matter sink,
buried in the
absence of light.

You go become midnight,
thick and airless,
no lungs or blood cells;
nothingness;
that be your hell.

I try to feel some
kind of way but I’m
filled with memories,
flat and frayed.

I’ll leave behind
written manifestos
of what you all did and
never confessed to.

With my head held high,
I will always tell the truth.
Now I can speak your name.
So the world can truly know you.

This be my sadistic story;
the one I deserve to scream
while the blaming arrives asking
what about her family?

I reply
what about me?