Pieces

Awhile back I shared a poem I wrote about the experience of partner abuse. At the time I wrote the poem, I had a newborn, and I imagined that a woman might choose to stay in an abusive relationship because she felt she had no way to provide for her child otherwise.

My child is now older, and as she has grown up, I have imagined how abuse might seep from a spouse to a child. Would the mother continue to stay in the relationship if she thought she had no other options? Would she see her children hurt and decide it was finally time to leave? How would she protect her children? Could she protect her children?

I wrote this poem to sort through my thoughts and feelings about the topic. As with the last poem, I drew from several sources. I digested news stories and imagined what I'd do in similar situations. I cried after hearing what friends have endured. Yes, I've been hurt, too - with words only and certainly not to the extent depicted here. As I sat with the pain, I wondered how it changed me. How would pain change a child? Is there anything that can be done to shield a child from that pain or reverse the damage once it is done?

Pieces

I wish you'd hit me
Square in the face;
Make my jaw bruise.
It'd be a pretty color, I bet.

I tried to do it myself once (or more),
But the redness faded
And never left a bruise,
And I was disappointed.

Maybe then you'd see the pain.
Maybe you'd believe it was real.
Maybe you'd be inspired to change,
But I doubt it,

Because you haven't yet,
Despite words, letters, counseling,
And plenty of bruises -
Just not ones on my face.

But now you have a chance
To hurt them, too,
To make them feel worthless, broken,
Unloved, and deserving of bruises,

And I won't stop you anymore.
You pushed me out of the way
Enough times already.
I am dutifully reminded of my place,

So I will remain twisted on the floor
And wait for them to join me
After they fall or are flung there.
Who knows when they will break?

I'll curl up with them
And envelop them in whatever is left of me.
We will be broken pieces for you to step on,
But somehow you won't cut your foot.