Ever felt the silence grow fangs?
On this day, I huddled closer to the frail fire, hoping it would find the strength to warm my aching bones. The rats scurried around me but never took even the smallest bite; they had deafened to my constant moans.
On this day, my gaoler’s key opened the door to my dingy hovel and released wild waves of effluvia. Dripping time had dried my emotions. No longer did I have great care. My shadow was my only charge while the stone walls captured my stare.
On this day, I hobbled along the stone corridor and stumbled down the narrow, steps, clearly designed for the emaciated it housed. Out into a crisp English morning, fresh air caressed my gaunt face, and for the final time I felt roused.
On this day, the mob’s cheers and chants battered my ears as I clambered the wooden steps and faced he without a face: a man towering over me with a request for my forgiveness, which I was bounded to give in good grace.
On this day, I glanced across the baying, chaotic crowd until my gaze fell on him: the majestic oil black raven who circled just overhead. The world never looked more beautiful and vibrant. The air never smelled more pure and pleasant; each breath more precious than the last. Each sensation opened windows into my past.
On this day, the priest’s words floated in silence across the square while the faceless man helped me to my knees. I nodded in agreement: my crimes against her most gracious majesty deserved this punishment. I harboured no malice; I had been freely impertinent.
On this day, my hands trembled toward the block before me. My mouth dried and my weary heart pounded in its final moments with the strength of a tiger. A deep cyan sky filled my eyes with tears: never again would I feel the caress of the sun or see the grace of a raven above. Never again would my wrecked body enjoy the embrace of love.
Stony walls, dank air and a northerly draught were my final comforts. But pity me not as my body a head does lose, in the name of all within the heart and will of she born to power: never earned; never open for all to achieve.
On this day, they came for me, and I have never more grateful been.
—H, witness to the hush before the hunt
Gay-Bashed
A defiant and heart-rending poem that confronts gay oppression head-on. From bashed bodies to buried love letters, it exposes the cost of silence, and the strength it takes to endure.
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