I know so many women
who are recovering from the “love” of a man.
Who were ground up, snuffed out, worn down by greedy fingers and words that made a home in their ribcages, long after the sunsets painted on their skin have faded.
I could wash the hands of the world twice over from the tears I have seen women shed.
I am tired of trauma being what bonds women together.
Of war stories being swapped, at least the ones we could bear to tell, shared with a sparkling vivacity we did not feel.
Me too. Me too. Me too. Me too.
We are held together by what has broken us, by who has broken us, this is a bond forged in blood and pain because we too know what it is like to have your body not belong to you, to be scooped out, parsed out, splattered commodity on a pair of hands.
We cover this with love, we cover each other with this. We fish out the bullet and sew the wound closed, though it will leave a scar as these things do, and somehow we forget who fired the gun. Who sold the ammunition.
For each me, there is a you.