Brute Silence

There is no account of violence in our family.

No one has ever hit me before, except once my mother slapped me

Hard across the cheek.

I said something to the person on the other end of the phone

Which she resented, tired of raising my rebellion

It soiled her fresh out of the shower cleanliness, a dense mark on the carpet, stunned where I stood

Into silence.

Of the people that have hurt me, the trash-can lid attempts to seal my voice have cut deeper

Sharper than the outright punches.

I am tough, freckled and sturdy

But my heart is a soft boiled egg.

There is no account of violence in my relationships.

Except if you count the time

I kick the gallon of detergent off the steps.

It clacks like noisy hooves, without regard to the neighbor’s shared wall, and lands on the cracked tile without a dent.

You follow me faster than I can flee, thudding up the stairs and

Shove me hard, once.

And the time you throw a pillow in my face, point blank.

Eyes locked on mine in a bitter scowl

I burst into tears upon impact

Like a toddler realizing her mother hates her.

See? That’s how it feels.

I used to only know how to criticize and rage,

The Uncomplimentary half of a same-sex partnership

Best at being hurt and acting like I’d leave.

The quavering threat

A heavy storm cloud surrounding the hurricane’s eye.

If you ask, I might say, “only men have ever hurt me.”

One of the first times I learned how to be hurt by men:

A rift emerged at the dusty bowels of a national park

With a man I knew too well and he yelled

For me to Stop Talking About It!

Later, the apology came too late.

I couldn’t hear it anyway over the desert’s thunderclap as we left

By that time, I had already learned to shut up.

Did you know how words malalign worse than force?

Words slice cleanly

Across state lines and generations and timelines

Gets you uninvited to Christmas

So instead of him teaching you about the stock market

He teaches you about loss.

Force only happens when you are inches apart, a breath of a shared orgasm, like hands intertwined, like crawling into her skin;

And still, neither force nor silence

Will break you close enough to shatter the love you crave.

These men I know

Cover up bad behavior as if

Their lives depended on it.

Even the best of them cry for the discussions to end, and so when my brother shouts

“Stop talking about his wife!”

I do, for seven years.

But today he texts me

“I hate her, she’s crazy.”

I always knew it. Sometimes I just know things.

Now her husband is locked away without a phone, his mind an emptying room.

Miles across from where I stand now, uninvited to his own Christmas.