It’s so much easier
to tell the truth when he’s gone.
There’s no one to deny
or tell others that I am wrong.

It’s easier to say what happened,
without someone to point out just how I am mistaken.

I can now tell the truth,
because there is no one to deny & blame it on my youth.
I can now begin to heal
and truly express how I feel.

It’s so much easier to tell the truth
when the perpetrator’s dead.
At least now there’s no one to laugh &
claim I’ve got screws loose in my head.

The oddity is even when’s he’s gone:
there’s still someone eager to tell me how I’m wrong.

Or my favourite who are sure
that I’m false when I say I had to endure.
Rather than believe I did it in fear,
they leer & say “you must’ve gotten something out of it dear.”

Then there are the one who cannot look past the front
of a friend child taught never an adult to confront.
All they see is the façade
of a confident, outspoken, coward.

I tell you it’s so much easier to admit abuse when he’s dead. There’s so much I can tell you about the things he did.
Things, which I never thought my soul would from, heal
but truly as I speak, healing sweet & divine I feel.

Say what you will
But the truth I will continue to spill
Yes, Oprah & I aren’t the only ones
But we’re (representative of) the ones who didn’t reach for our alcohol, drugs or guns.

The truth is easier to tell when he’s gone.
For after his death under his spell there are none.