…and my hair was tangled with leaves and roots
and smeared dirt painted me another color
and his eyes looked down, laughing to see me broken.
Some days I can almost
forget my realness.
In its details it was simple.
Clinical – this goes here,
Hold her down.
But there is still
– something –
call us survivors
but that word is too static.
It implies the surviving is over.
Every day is survival.
that I don’t see his face
etched on my memory
a pattern on glass
an exacto knife on a wax paper cutout
they don’t tell you in the instructions how easy it is to shatter
Poem by Annie Jadin, speakingvoiceless.wordpress.com.