Open Wound

“I am an open wound!” They both yelled at each other,

with shame in her voice and anger in his tone,

with tears in her eyes and concern in his own.

Without another word, they pulled each other close.

“I am an open wound.” They said more slowly into each other's ears.

He pulled away, and from her eyes fell a tear,

he saw and felt the pain she could no longer bear.

So he kissed her forehead to show that he cares.

“I am an open wound.” She said alone, this time as a whisper.

“An open wound that will never heal.”

He held her and said, “I’ll comfort you whenever you need.”

“Now tell me your problems so I can feel what you feel.”

And with a shaky voice, her trauma revealed.

“I remember that night, the first of November,

when the winter air passed through the street,

I hugged my teddy tight as I was soon fast asleep.

I didn’t know that hovering over my bed was a creep,

until his big rough hand slipped under the sheets.

I tried to cry for help but there was no one around.

He put his hand over my mouth,

stopping any attempt I had to make a sound.

I was only eleven years old.

I was so young!

His big heavy hand on my blooming chest was an awful sight.

His dirty fingers gripped my beautiful black hair so tight.

I wiggled and tried to get him off with all my might.

But he held me and took what didn’t belong to him in the dead of the night.

Five days later, I told my mother that her man put me through unspeakable pain.

She accused me of lying, asking what I hoped to gain.

She started to yell and curse like she was insane.

She was filled with so much anger and so much hate.

‘He was my man. My man! Not yours to take,’ she said.

‘He was my man, not ours to share!’ She yelled.

She started to cry, and that evening both our hearts bled,

hers for her man and mine for my lost innocence.

After that, I kept my mouth shut and told nobody else.

I became a big girl and kept it all to myself.

Because if my own mother didn’t care about how I felt,

Why would an outsider?

Why would anybody else?

So I am sorry if whenever we are intimate

I make you feel like you’re not enough,

but wherever your hands wander I can still feel his touch.

Just like you his face is sweet and his palms are so rough.

And no matter how many pills or showers I take, it’s still never enough.”

He stared at her with mixed expressions of pain, disgust and shock.

Disgust that a man would touch an eleven year old like that.

Pain that she had to be burdened with so much.

He was shocked to hear that a mother would treat her daughter like trash.

He held her with a gentle grasp,

his eyes filled with tears as he remembered the story of her past.

A trauma like hers was hard to ignore,

and the memories of her story etched so fast.

It was finally time for them to share their past at last.

“I am an open wound,” he muttered.

“What was that?” She asked.

He wanted to tell her about the day he found his parents dead.

His mother was beaten to death and his father shot in the head.

Seeing the look on her face, he kissed her lips and said,

“It’s now getting late, let’s get you to bed.”