Unfinished Bruises
On the whole, they say, things get better from here.
The doctor will see you every day
because you’re not capable of making any decision
after that bad one you made.
You need the rest if that’s what this is.
You have a room and a roommate,
and when you leave that room you’ll walk into a bigger room
where all eyes fall upon you
along with dense insecurity.
Acquiescing comes easily
ever since you escaped the monster
who stood between you and the door
silently, watching you wither.
You were breathing too heavily
as the ambulance jostled you to the hospital
while medics roughly tugged at your arm
trying to find a vein
as they argued in the distance with panic in their voices —
and there you fade away.
From somewhere else, you remember
he said you ruin everything.
You blink and tell a group leader you don’t like him
for making you talk to people you don’t want to acknowledge,
but you cannot escape this tribe
from a teeny tiny ball in a corner chair.
He says it’s ok if you hate him
but it’s a condition of your release to follow the rules —
all you can see is something new
between you and the door.
A woman who explains we used to be chattel
and we have so many options these days
tells you she sees who you are and you’ll be just fine.
You think about that as you call a taxi from the lobby, alone
because there’s nobody around once the threat is extinguished.
You go somewhere lush and eat expensive steak
while he admits the need to tell everyone what he did
if you come home.
He’s already concocted the next illusion.
You call someone for support and they tell you
it’s too extravagant to spend the night at that fancy hotel.
You tell them about the first-class return flight you booked
and hang up as you chew dinner on an enormous bed in a cozy bathrobe.
It’ll be your first-ever flight like that,
and you are taking it back to prison.
