Me, four years old.
I was five.
On the edge of my bed,
my knees drawn to my chest,
my arms wrapped around them
tight as a vise.
He zipped his jeans.
I hated the smell of him on me.
Hated that I had not fought.
Hated the smallness of my body,
the terrible silence
that followed.
He told me
no one would ever love me.
That I was only good for sex.
And I believed him.
I carried those words
into the years that followed,
mistaking desire for love,
offering myself
while wondering
why I was never enough.
I did not know
that a child could be given a lie
and spend a lifetime
trying to make it untrue.
Years later,
my daughter asked to see his face.
I showed her a photograph.
She cried
because we had the same eyes.
She came to me,
wrapped her arms around me,
and said,
I’m sorry.
A few weeks before she died,
she called to tell me
she was proud of me.
I did not know then
how often I would return
to those words.
When she died,
I began the long work
of learning to live
with what could not be changed.
And somewhere in that work,
other wounds began
to loosen their hold.
The little girl
was still there.
Not waiting to be saved.
Waiting to be believed.
To be held without fear.
To be told
that none of it
was hers to carry.
Now,
music fills the room
where I paint.
My hands are stained with color.
I move my hips,
lift my arms,
turn toward the sound.
I take up space.
I do not apologize
for the body I inhabit,
for its hunger,
its tenderness,
its capacity for joy.
And sometimes,
as I dance,
I think of the little girl
with her knees drawn tightly
against her chest.
I hope she is enjoying this
as much as I am.
I am still healing her.
My peace does not extinguish my fire.
It gives my fire
somewhere safe to burn.
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