You didn’t want to believe it.
The way her words
stinged your hand-
palm pressed to your ear as
you tried not to hear.
This morning
the poorly tattooed butterfly
on her wrist was just that;
a purple butterfly.
Now,
as you listen to her battle story,
it begins to mean more.
“Survivor of Domestic Abuse”
My mother explained
the way his hand
balled up into a fist,
swung through the air,
and shared a rough kiss with her face.
You could see it now,
the way you imagined she felt
when she dragged her choice of weapon
slowly down her wrist.
without her even telling you.
And as you look closer;
discreetly,
you can see the scar
hiding under the shades of
purple and black.
Her battle story
was a beast sharpening its claws.
Waiting for the moment to destroy
all the effort you had done
to finally accept him as your father.
But,
she still talked.
And you saw everything she said;
a younger her sitting in the car,
his hand meeting her flesh in a fight
to the death.
She gave up
and she went for the door,
opened it and cursed the teasing road under her,
And you saw how she leaned towards it,
accepting it as
his hand shot away from the wheel
to grab her arm.
He yelled at her,
things you couldn’t dare repeat.
For a second you think,
He was scared.
Maybe he did care.
But the marks on her arm resembled the marks on her soul.
The marks his hands of destruction left
were his art,
black and purple;
dark.
The marks were deep,
deep enough to finally,
make you believe.