push (tw: violence, abuse)

I like to pretend the problem isn’t me

I cope by convincing myself that

The time

You held my face underwater in the bathtub

I lost so much oxygen

That the part of my brain responsible 

For love

Was compromised.

The love neurochemicals bled

Straight out of my nose

After you slammed my face into

The porcelain.

And I convince myself that I caused it

By provoking him

“What are you going to do, kill me?”

And you tried

And it was the most disappointed I’d ever been 

When you failed

No easy outs for me.

I blame myself for being convinced I could fix you.

I remember when you cried over my body

On the bathroom floor.

I think your tears were more angry than anything;

Angry that I had finished myself off

Before you had the chance.

I was never allowed to win.

When I finally coughed and gagged

There was relief in your voice

“Oh thank fucking god, don’t die”

You said

“I’m not done with you yet.”

And then you shoved your fingers down my throat

And I vomited on your mother’s two hundred dollar rug.

Three days later you were so angry about it

My arm twisted behind my back

You weren’t done with me yet. 

----

I don’t even mind that you hit me

Or that my hair hasn’t grown back

Where you ripped it out

Or that I am completely incapable of accepting love

Or that I feel you in almost every hand that touches me

These things are solvable

With enough time.

But you took away the one thing 

I wanted most.

“Trauma induced scarring can sometimes prevent pregnancy”

They used purple dye in the rape kit

And the fingerprints on my neck were purple

And the police officer had purple bags

Under his eyes

And I so badly wanted a daughter named

 Violet.

First you beat her out of me

And then you made sure there wouldn’t be 

Another. 

Even now I wonder

If there was a miracle

Would she soak up some of that hate you left

In my womb?

---

We are laced by separate memories -

Our own personal blood pact

(it runs through our veins, though she does not know)

I'll keep her unscathed in my head,

but let her bleed out daily,

and wake up seeping every atom that she is

Now, someone clean the blood from her mouth.

--

Pots and pans clatter to the floor in the back of my mind

A cup on the floor that I dropped on purpose,

shards of glass the only barrier between you and I.

You said your mother would be there but you lied.

I can seen the dent in the wall where my skull slept.

Those memories blur now,

a different girl lived there

As I make tea and eggs and toast in this new house

There are no dents in the walls.

---

My first thought when I toured this apartment

is how my jaw would crack against every surface

if he was here.

A morbid thought, but he trained me in thinking 

about how he might kill me when the time came,

conditioned my brain into a marathon season of "1,000 Ways to Die"

Concrete floors would make for excellent blood spatter.

And my mom looked so happy

running her hands over the stone countertops

And my grandmother looked so hopeful

admiring the dusty red brick

And I wanted to be happy

and hopeful. 

"Is this the one sweetie?"

Of course it was.

You do not say no to

happy and hopeful

Even when the dull ache of 

long healed bruises

tether your wrists.

"Yeah, of course it is."

I live here now

Myself,

chopping onions

sweeping floors

where blood might have pooled.

---

How do you explain to the person who loves you most that suddenly speeding up the car sends you back to the night he sped towards the concrete wall of the local grocer

"I could kill us both right now if I wanted to"

You reach over and touch my leg and I feel him riding shotgun with us. Grinning like he's in on the joke. 

---

One of the best things that my therapist taught me is that trauma dumping in the beginning of relationships is not an accurate portrayal of who I am and it is not fair to myself to present myself with things that do not define me. That my attempts to bond through shared trauma is a surefire way to attract those who will treat me the same way as those who traumatized me. More accurately she phrased this sentiment as, "Why advertise yourself as a broke-down car when you're a whole Lamborghini. You want to attract people who can afford a Lamborghini." 

Jenna may be the smartest woman I know.

---