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WHO AM I NOW
Private Notes
Private Notes
Notes
I ran out on my life barefoot,
my image confused in mirrors.
I blend in like a bruise
concealed in doubt
with every other woman
encountered here. My name
so disjointed, once familiar
like me, how it ricochets
off walls like an echo
unanswered. At night
I try to unwind
the long hours
that once struck
closed to a fist
of four letter words.
My name is charity;
And I am just a woman
who has been torn down
one low blow at a time.
This urban dwelling
is a shelter
built on a base of bone
and blood.
We women here,
we know: Fear is the mortar
paralyzing thoughts
so twisted out of place.
I have dialed 1-800 numbers stuck
to swinging metal doors
engraved with graffiti I have flushed
away the waste
of years.
I drag along my children
and my shame.
When my Focus died
on the roadside,
courage dripped like oil
from a crack
in my plans
of escape.
As the new moon pulls
the lid of night over me,
who am I now?
I am Eve.
My husband shot me
in the face. Pretty face.
Pretty awful the beauty
I will no longer see,
but I feel, and I hear
the gifted, god-
like surgeons
reconstructed me
using pieces of my ribs.
I am wired together.
I am wired.
In facing the present,
the past still palpitates
in death-like flashes,
too dark to break
the shadow I am
learning to walk again
through walls
that give way
to flights
of unperceivable stairs
seemingly never ending.
As I stand before the stare
of the unblemished
face of the future,
who am I now?
I am Hope,
and lately I am
barely hanging on.
Should you look
a little closer,
you will see
why I am losing it.
I have become one
who finds
her sons and daughters
huddled hushed in bedrooms
far away, down hallways
that stretch through the years
of this house—this home
wherein a familiar fear seeps
beneath doors. My children,
they have become accustomed
to the sound of violence.
My name is Faith,
and I can only hope
you haven’t noticed
how I fall asleep inside
the backseat of my Camry
in this Kmart parking lot.
No low-rent room
can offer such a view.
At times, I almost believe
the simple feeling of safety
can come in crazily
cramped quarters.
It sure beats a knife
to the throat, a boot
to the breast,
a word to my heart.
The ongoing threats
have left me
defenseless.
It is time for me
to put pen
to paper,
for I must
cover my back
with words,
black and white.
Comments
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I try to unwind the long hours that once struckclosed to a fist
I really feel this, and can relate to it. -
When my Focus diedon the roadside,courage dripped like oil from a crack in my plans
The metaphors and simile 👏🏾👏🏾 -
I appreciate work you put into this. It is a clear presentation of what I would imagine an abuse survivor would say. I am not sure if you wrote this from personal experience but am sorry if it is.
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Beautiful poem, thank you for sharing.