You Don't Know Me
There are times when the words do not come. No matter how much I cry and pray and beg for them to appear nothing happens. At those times I look to what others have written and hope for inspiration. Sometimes that works. Today it didn’t. I did find something that moved me, so I borrow, (steal?) from David Klass' book "You Don't Know Me". It reminded me of my own feelings as a young boy. Some of the details are different but the pain is the same.
Maybe tomorrow the muses will smile on me.
You Don’t Know Me
David Klass
You don’t know me at all. You don’t know the first thing about me. You don’t know where I’m writing this from. You don’t know what I look like. You have no power over me.
What do you think I look like? Skinny? Freckles? Wire-rimmed glasses over brown eyes? No, I don’t think so. Better look again. Deeper. It’s like a kaleidoscope, isn’t it? One minute I’m short, the next minute tall, one minute I’m geeky, one minute studly, my shape constantly changes, and the only thing that stays constant is my brown eyes. Watching you.
That’s right, I’m watching you right now sitting on the couch next to the man who is not my father, pretending to read a book that is not a book, waiting for him to pet you like a dog or stroke you like a cat. Let’s be real, the man who is not my father isn’t a very nice man. Not just because he’s not my father but because he hits me when you’re not around, and he says if I tell you he’ll really take care of me.
Those are his words. “I’ll really take care of you, John. Don’t rat on me or you’ll regret it.” Nice guy.
But I’m telling you now. Can’t you hear me? He’s petting the top of your head like he would pet a dog, with his right hand, which just happens to be the hand he hits me with. When he hits me he doesn’t curl his fingers into a fist because that would leave a mark. He slaps me with the flat of his hand. WHAP. And now I’m watching him stroke your cheek with those same fingers. He holds me tight with his left hand when he hits me so hard I can’t run away. And now he’s holding you tenderly with his left hand. And I’m telling you this as I watch through the window, but your eyes are closed and you could care less, because he’s stroking you the way he would stroke a cat and I bet your purring.
You don’t know me at all.
You Don't Know Me by David Klass (c) 2001 Thorndike Press
Maybe tomorrow the muses will smile on me.
You Don’t Know Me
David Klass
You don’t know me at all. You don’t know the first thing about me. You don’t know where I’m writing this from. You don’t know what I look like. You have no power over me.
What do you think I look like? Skinny? Freckles? Wire-rimmed glasses over brown eyes? No, I don’t think so. Better look again. Deeper. It’s like a kaleidoscope, isn’t it? One minute I’m short, the next minute tall, one minute I’m geeky, one minute studly, my shape constantly changes, and the only thing that stays constant is my brown eyes. Watching you.
That’s right, I’m watching you right now sitting on the couch next to the man who is not my father, pretending to read a book that is not a book, waiting for him to pet you like a dog or stroke you like a cat. Let’s be real, the man who is not my father isn’t a very nice man. Not just because he’s not my father but because he hits me when you’re not around, and he says if I tell you he’ll really take care of me.
Those are his words. “I’ll really take care of you, John. Don’t rat on me or you’ll regret it.” Nice guy.
But I’m telling you now. Can’t you hear me? He’s petting the top of your head like he would pet a dog, with his right hand, which just happens to be the hand he hits me with. When he hits me he doesn’t curl his fingers into a fist because that would leave a mark. He slaps me with the flat of his hand. WHAP. And now I’m watching him stroke your cheek with those same fingers. He holds me tight with his left hand when he hits me so hard I can’t run away. And now he’s holding you tenderly with his left hand. And I’m telling you this as I watch through the window, but your eyes are closed and you could care less, because he’s stroking you the way he would stroke a cat and I bet your purring.
You don’t know me at all.
You Don't Know Me by David Klass (c) 2001 Thorndike Press
posted by Pastor Bluejeans at 12:22 PM
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