Whistleblower by Pauline Sewards

I am not a silent poet

(in celebration of Chelsea Manning)

Because you were pulled like a snail from a shell

and your name was kicked around like a football

and you were raised on sour milk and diesel air

spawned from sun and swimming pools

transposed to coal and  valleys poverty

you learned  the art of being bullied.

The mask was around your eyes and your limbs were bound

you woke from delirium to a blood haze called reality

you woke and saw your body lying far below

and felt the tender pull of nostalgia.

Code was a thrill

when you unleashed your message in a bottle

into an optic fibre sea

tough skin grew over the raw pink scars of your redacted name

as you entered the nihilism of spilling secrets

where each secret had other secrets bound to it

like ears on a fungi of ears on a fungi of ears

Your courage…

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