by Amy Pimentel
"Anonymous"
Soft-spoken
Pacific Island accent
purple eyeliner
outlined fear
a cry for help
she asks if I was
abused by a boyfriend
my stomach deflates
in my throat
See, I know the textbook
tell-tale signs of an abuser
begins with insults of perceived
low necklines and
high hemlines, breaking
down confidence by building
on insecurities
Amy Pimentel grew up in Hanford, CA amongst a Portuguese family of storytellers. Her passion for social justice and the desire to share human experiences motivates her writing. I spent hours absorbing
tears of ink on the
restraining orders I drafted
“It’s not your fault,”
I’d say
So, why am I ashamed?
Because I stayed and when
his hand pictured my face
on the wall he socked
Fear kept me there
as he snuggled to me
told me my fear was
based on his skin’s
heritage, blame shifting
guilt tricking
making me a racist, he
justified his violence
“Besides,” he said
“I am a certifiable graduate
of Anger Management.”
and the lips that called
me “Bitch,” attempt a kiss
The hand that moments before
longed to cause me pain
wondered up my naked thigh
“Did you boyfriend abuse you?”
Maternal instinct to protect
brings me back to the now
a high school library
on Poetry Day
I was there to speak on words
unprepared to answer
to the demons behind
metaphors
I tell her abuse has
four parts
lips
hearts
hands
sex
“He says he won’t hit
me again,” she says.
But he will
again
and
again
no end
He will promise
it’s the last time
Tell you, if only you
hadn’t said…
hadn’t done…
hadn’t been …
It’s not him, he’ll say
See, his triggers are
all things feminine
Searching for advice
stuck in amazement
at words written in solitude
connecting strangers, momentous
encounters
“Run like hell,” I say.
I stayed two weeks two long
but not too late to run away
“Ok” she smiles quietly
thanks me, running to the
warning bell of 2nd period.
“Wait! I didn’t get your name!”
© Amy Pimentel 2007
Picture: via flavsonfire flickR account.
