The Seventeenth of March

A bruise beneath my ribs.

A broken mirror.

The seventeenth of March.

A barricaded dorm.

A man-made cage.

A hostage.

A window.

Snow. A sunrise.

My black Kia.

An escape.

A left turn past my childhood home.

Disbelief.

A parking garage.

A hole in my slipper.

Hospital lights.

A waiting room.

A nurse who coddles me.

She has a savior complex.

HIPAA is broken.

A cop uncomfortable saying the word rape

as if he was the one who had to bear its shame.

The drive home is long. Too long.

Scalding water,

Did you know skin could hold memory?

My throat aches.

My body aches.

My soul fucking aches.

You do not know shame until

you ask someone you love

to guard the bathroom door while you shower.

You do not know shame

until you are covered in someone else’s.

And still,

morning arrived.

Trees kept swaying.

My kitten still nudged beneath my arm each evening.

The world kept making beautiful things.

People sat beside my decay

and marveled the ruins.

They loved whatever mess was left of me.

And when my soul found her way back,

I began sleeping without fear.

Allowed myself to be touched

without preparing for brutality.

Someone has held my face

like something sacred,

and my body did not confuse

his gentleness for danger.

Someone has kissed me softly,

and for the first time in years,

healing sounded like breathing normally again.

So much was taken from me,

and so much returned:

my soul.

My ability to love.

Darkness is not my inheritance.

I lived.

May every soul you’ve stolen

find her way back.

May no one else gasp for air beneath you.

May you instead gasp for air in her presence.

I hope you gasp.

Sarah Amoros