Thursday, October 2, 2014

Cause I know that you feel me somehow

Battered women have the makings of a battered woman.  Visible,  touchable. Even if they hide in places under shorts and pants. On rib cages and arms. On legs,  backs,  and when they are visible. Hand marks around the neck,  stitches on an eyebrow.  A black eye.  A broken nose. A broken spirit.
Even a woman who is being abused emotionally,  the depth of their eyes are empty. Dead. Trying to feel nothing because they are made to feel like they are nothing.
I have no visible unintentional markings. My nose isn't broken. My limbs are all intact.
I don't even know if my eyes are dead,  or if I am just that good at pretending, ignoring, forgetting for a moment more that this terrible thing has happened. That this terrible thing happened to ME.
And I find it had to concentrate,  try desperately to bury myself in anything but this emptiness inside of me. This loneliness.  This isolation.
I am a battered women and there no visible marks to prove that this terrible thing happened. To me.

So many terrible, awful things happen on this planet. I am warm,  and fed, and for the most part loved.

But this is still my burden. My pain. My brokenness that will never seem to heal fully. When do I get the chance to confront my abuser? When can I hold up this empty hole and say "Here, this is yours. You did this."?

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