To those leaches.

Written in June:

       Slowly disappearing. Sinking, melting into shallow mattress stained by yesterday's tears. Now I soak back into them, reliving that sloppy dripping. Each rolling wetness dampens surface skin, cool to touch. Deep warmth inside hollow as hallow, grained with time as wood.

       I receive a strange package in the mail, fat envelope, handwritten sendee. New, secret address. I open it slowly, almost fearing the contents, this looks not like junk, the shape, feel and paper too thick with intent. Inside, the pamphlet describes my past life, each warning sign something previously known by me, familiar and warm through use. I keep remembering more that fits in those boxes, those categories. 

       I am wrong to talk about what happens between us. They may never accept him, I ruin and stir our future into difficulty. I feel benefited by strained silence, protecting and shielding him, keeping safe our secrets. He speaks of petty violences to screen newest violence against me, a smokescreen saying "You are the first," as if that sweetens this. I inspired such consistent hate and loathing in him. He resents me, says and thinks I look down on him, as if inexcusable  or inappropriate. My angers, outrage, and ownership is private, remembered only by myself, his. I learn to keep quieter and quieter. My thoughts grow softer than ever before. I even tried to stop them, succeeding sometimes for short spurts. I start hurting myself again, like I deserve it, and I lose that dull heartbeat to survive. I, captured by a person who taught me how I could be free. I become soft putty, mold into something to use and use.

       "I can't go to jail for this. I know that you don't have any reason to, but do what you can. This will ruin my life." As I had been properly prepared for months, I listened blindly. I hid, sheltered and protected the man who seconds ago took my precious air and wished me silent. I listened because I do that, I listen, I soak up information...and I felt threatened. I felt in a corner. I do not lay personal life issues in open air. Never have I been given a life...the shock had not abated, would not, has not still. The terror and fear of my maternity pushed forward...

       Somedays curl, climb and ravel downward inward. What is good for me but to be alone and alone? I feel fine most of the time, lost. I have to see his face Monday, Monday. God, monday. I don't know if I'm ready. How could I become ready? He makes my neck and back tense, my heart pound in my ears, my eyes widen, my eyes well, my ears perk. How will I do this? That man who labeled my box "woman" and hid it hard. All good will happen when I free from him. Leave me. Leave you. Want to leave from this, done and away. 

      One good thing, he crushed my trusting naiveté, loosing my pen and tongue. Now they flow. Sometime they may write less than fear and struggle and hurt and pain. I keep thinking about that learning, would it have come without this ice-cold-water-shock? I don't want to think about that answer, for one makes this useful, even necessary. Then, one makes this useless, all this pain. I'm introspective and alone in this thought knowledge. No one could fully understand this catch...maybe other women or men. 

You, out there still, sleeping soundly, clinking empty bottles of glass. I do not want you to hurt anyone else. 

      

Leave that thought alone and naked, do not dress it up to hurt less. It is possible and probable. Someone so sinister steals, takes, tortures through this long life. I used to think I knew and understood people and thoughts. Lisa says most people are good.