There is so much you don't know
as I wring my hands in my lap,
helpless and pinned beneath your glare.
And yes, I call it nothing,
because that's the only word I can think of
that won't cut my tongue
when it falls out of my mouth the way tears creep down my cheeks.
Nothing.
I held her hand and felt her strength wane.
Nothing.
I saw the fear in his eyes,
whiskey bottle half glass, half self-loathing.
Nothing.
They stutter in a corner.
She looms at my door.
The phone screen lights up.
My heart aches.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
You fear a million things
that have never come close enough
to hurt you.
But darling, I fear myself,
because I turn against my nature
to love those who have tried to drown me.
Their hands are still wrapped around my throat
when, exhausted, I collapse
into the cool embrace
of my crisp sheets.
And then I rise again,
tug on my boots and lace them up tight,
shoulders squared like I'm off to war.
Not a wrinkle left on my shirt, my sheets, my brow -
there is so much you don't know.
There is so much you don't know,
about the trembling in my voice
when I answer the phone.
About the shake of my fingers
when my mind tells me to run,
yet I walk further down the corridor.
There are things I can't explain
about captivity because you've known home
to be warm, to be held by a mother.
To be swept clear of sharp words
and weaponized walks
against which you simply want to shut your door.
Nothing.
She wishes she'd aborted me.
Nothing.
He hides the plate he broke and I take the fall for it.
Nothing.
My muscles ache.
He pushes himself over the edge.
They waste away in hospital rooms.
Dark corners frame their eyes.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing is wrong.
"Enjoy home and drive safe"
I say and turn to walk back upstairs,
mentally crossing off the days I have left
before I can't say no to another
"are you coming home this weekend?"
I don't complain about weekends
left alone in an empty house, silent,
because I'm used to it.
Because this silence is far softer
far kinder.
Darling there is so much you don't know,
so much I cannot explain.
So much I cannot show.
But I am weak, I am shedding, I am hurting,
I want nothing more that to hear
that sometimes it's okay to not be okay.
And still it echoes back to me:
Nothing.
Nothing.
Say nothing.
Jun 18, 2020
Jun 18, 2020 at 6:58 AM UTC
There is so much you don't know
as I wring my hands in my lap,
helpless and pinned beneath your glare.
And yes, I call it nothing,
because that's the only word I can think of
that won't cut my tongue
when it falls out of my mouth the way tears creep down my cheeks.
Nothing.
I held her hand and felt her strength wane.
Nothing.
I saw the fear in his eyes,
whiskey bottle half glass, half self-loathing.
Nothing.
They stutter in a corner.
She looms at my door.
The phone screen lights up.
My heart aches.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
You fear a million things
that have never come close enough
to hurt you.
But darling, I fear myself,
because I turn against my nature
to love those who have tried to drown me.
Their hands are still wrapped around my throat
when, exhausted, I collapse
into the cool embrace
of my crisp sheets.
And then I rise again,
tug on my boots and lace them up tight,
shoulders squared like I'm off to war.
Not a wrinkle left on my shirt, my sheets, my brow -
there is so much you don't know.
There is so much you don't know,
about the trembling in my voice
when I answer the phone.
About the shake of my fingers
when my mind tells me to run,
yet I walk further down the corridor.
There are things I can't explain
about captivity because you've known home
to be warm, to be held by a mother.
To be swept clear of sharp words
and weaponized walks
against which you simply want to shut your door.
Nothing.
She wishes she'd aborted me.
Nothing.
He hides the plate he broke and I take the fall for it.
Nothing.
My muscles ache.
He pushes himself over the edge.
They waste away in hospital rooms.
Dark corners frame their eyes.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing is wrong.
"Enjoy home and drive safe"
I say and turn to walk back upstairs,
mentally crossing off the days I have left
before I can't say no to another
"are you coming home this weekend?"
I don't complain about weekends
left alone in an empty house, silent,
because I'm used to it.
Because this silence is far softer
far kinder.
Darling there is so much you don't know,
so much I cannot explain.
So much I cannot show.
But I am weak, I am shedding, I am hurting,
I want nothing more that to hear
that sometimes it's okay to not be okay.
And still it echoes back to me:
Nothing.
Nothing.
Say nothing.
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