Krystal Elizabeth Selwood is a Youngsolwaran based in Samoa, and is of Papua New Guinea and Samoan parentage.
“I stand firmly with the belief that anyone and everyone should not be deprived their equal right to feel and believe, among other things I believe in a peaceful future and a stable society.”
Now that you’re old enough, this. Is your story.
I was the child that got raped by the hands that seeped past my body and vigorously down my spine, I cried seamlessly oceans that filled the biggest basin of 30, tears that swallowed 60 million 90 degree angles that faced each other with the same four grey walls.
Your father followed without “how art thous” and rather slipped out slurs of hot blooded desires of empowering fingertips, conquering my every limb and scrapping my tongue numb, and with the many sands of time, you our child was born “Jolet Jen Anij” or as your father later named you John Marshall of the 180 in the era of 1788.
They named me “peaceful” in a tongue at the time, had he not have had disputes with his brethren and had fled to my shores I wouldn’t be tangled in cobwebs of ships that sunk through my flesh, that sparked ever so deadly, in the tears I tried to drown consciously equating explosive power of 42.2 megatons drowning you, my dear son.
But tell me, how are you? Do you still have breathing complications? Are your lungs still struggling for life? Burnt holes in your eyes that run skin deep. How are your children? Do they know who they are?
Now that you’re old enough, this is your story.
your mother pacific.
My skin my raincoat
Possible to feel welcome in my own home, I call my skin my raincoat.
Stars that seemed only alive when you’re about to leave falsely in your graveled seat sinking boat.
I saw my mother get dragged by the limb and beaten by that thing they call protection, by the man who carelessly wiped not a flinch of his grin as he pulled her, I could not shed a tear rather cry within my blood cells that boiled in the entrails of my “what is it called?”
That pulsating throbbing thing on the left side of my chest so bare and battered that has been snatched along with my
“what do you call it?”
that veracious act without chains so invisible that hurt without restraint where I can stand alongside what I want to say.
My brother of 200km and my father without a foresight left in him, who refuses to believe me anymore.
I feel I have feet that refuse to work anymore, with bones that refuse to function, a tongue that’s stuck and cannot move, hands that don’t feel a cent of attention.
Help me! my brother, I’m only drowning in this flood of repressed affection and hand-picked restraints of whips that hurt no more.
My truth you only see in black and white, detaining me of my culture, my land and my children.
I’ve been sour sipping crude cups of neglect filled with nonentity but faceless words and stray. I’m shackled in my own despondency, but I won’t fall, I will live on, for I call my skin my raincoat.
A dedicated piece to our West Papua brothers and sisters. I stand as your sister 200km near. – Krystal Elizabeth Selwood