I used to hate it when
you took off your shirt
because I would be forced to see
the maps stretching along
your back.
Maps of man-made roads,
dad-made roads.
“My father has
anger-management
issues”
That’s what you used to tell me,
as if it justified the
creation of highways curving
along your spine,
left there by leather belts
and angry hands.
Brown, perfect skin
marred by
smoldering cigarettes
and closed fists.
And even though it is you
who has to bear the abuse
it is both of us who bear the
scars.
Because I know it isn’t you
with your hands around my throat
at two in the morning.
I know it isn’t me
you’re fighting.
I know that the screams
that claw their way
out of your mouth
are simply the soundtrack
of your childhood
and that you couldn’t possibly
mean to leave
so many bruises on my
arms, because
you are asleep.
You are asleep.
And this is all just a nightmare
that will be fixed in the morning
with sunshine
and coffee
and whispered “I love you”s.
But morning comes,
and there are still
craters under your swollen eyes,
a heavy tongue
that has wrestled
with too many apologies:
you are sorry, you say.
And I forgive you.
Because it is morning:
there is sunshine
and coffee,
and I understand that this
is not you. This
is him:
One dad-made road
that tears through
the entire universe;
my universe.
Because you are my world
and he is a meteorite
that has left the earth
cracked and crumbling,
trembling
at my fingertips.
But I would really appreciate it
if you would get your hands off
my throat.
I am trying to tell you something:
This is a nightmare and I am not him.
It’s time to wake up.
Emily Keeler is a nineteen-year old poet from Canada. She believes in writing on the back of receipts, jumping in rain puddles, and dismantling the patriarchy. You can find her clad in pink rainboots in her hometown of Kingston, Ontario.
