untitled poem #1
maybe there is a neat way to tell this story.
maybe pretty words and smooth cadences
could iron down the shaking of my hands
but i can’t seem to find the words.
like a fuzzy memory, there but not quite.
maybe that memory will someday be whole.
the static in my mind settled like dust
on a bed in a room we weren’t supposed to be in
and now i’m here, trying to pick up the pieces
that five year old girl couldn’t even understand.
i remember the bedsheets.
the rich crimson taunting my peripheral.
i remember my voice shrinking
my stance crumbling
i had only wanted to play.
i remember his request, softened by our age,
the way we called them “minnie” and “mickey”.
such simple terms feel like scalding water, now.
i remember standing in that old doorway,
“no” wasn’t an option, and “yes” was a lie.
i don’t remember anything else.
i don’t remember how long it lasted,
how far it went,
and i think that part scares me the most.
i don’t remember if he kept his hands to himself.
the guilt had swallowed me whole,
i figured i was naughty for caving in,
that i couldn’t tell anyone or i’d get in trouble.
i was scared, so, so scared.
and i still am, really.
there isn’t a neat way to tell this story.
i was five years old,
and i feel just as vulnerable even now.
there were no pretty words or smooth cadences.
i didn’t even know how to write my name.
the memory isn’t quite whole,
so i’ll revise the pieces i have
and i’ll sit with them until it stops hurting.
i’ll sit with her
until our hands stop shaking.
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