February 2013 

I can’t forget the last time he spoke to me
when he told me
I’ll give you more to write about
if I didn’t stop writing this poetry
as if, the lines he’d drawn around my eyes
or the ones he’d left on my thighs
hadn’t given me enough to write about –
for years to come still – somehow to this day
I can’t erase
the image of feet crushing my face into carpet
can’t erase
the lines of this post traumatic stress
drawn around my neck like the noose that was the denial
of my so called friends
and I wonder
fuck, I wonder how I got that far in one piece
when my insides were layers of sand shredded glass reflections of my yesterdays
that I carried around my waist – like weights
with a heaviness you somehow didn’t see when you first met me
and I wonder
about how they say that we only accept the love we think we deserve
so I guess being called a whore often enough
heart shaped bruises and blackened eyelids were enough to make me question if it was you that I deserved
sabotaging my own happiness like treason within the borders of my own skin

until one day a friend asked me
girl, are you a victim or a victor?
victorious victim I said
bent, but not broken
victimized and terrorized by my soul memorized
between the layers of my prayer rug where I had left it
and where I finally re-found it

I’m not looking for excuses, only for explanations to explain what happened
and until you’ve had your perspective changed
in an empty staircase while feet pressed the vision from your eyes
and hands robbed you of your breath
I would understand it if you didn’t see
how it was so difficult to accept someone as real
and transparent as you
as someone that I deserved
someone reserved just for me