New York
She tells me I am beautiful the same day he says my face disgusts him. She tells me I am brilliant the same day he tells me I am not as smart as I think I am. She tells me I am a loving human being the same day he tells me I am selfish and spiteful. She tells me I am brave the same day he tells me I’m a coward. She tells me I am a survivor, a hero, the same day he tells me I am a viper, damaged, dead. Long ago he made me think possession was union and union is ownership and ownership requires loyalty and loyalty is compliance; that a woman can be claimed like land, a stake driven through her body’s soil. Long ago I learned silence is shelter and poison. I spoke in broken sentences to sisters who heard the missing words because they speak the same hushed dialect. There is no endurance without the swell of time, the pressure on the torso, the legs; grief’s inertia. They are two people: the he of then, the he of now. But they are the same, demanding submission. Lookback window says the Act, the pursuit of civil relief, a chance to review what memory made unspeakable; symbolic justice is no justice but light burns clear fire when pushed through glass. He stole my face. My original smile. I search for it in old clothing, photos, in portraits that were not hijacked, tainted, sabotaged. She tells me it’s because he hates me that he treats me this way the same day he tells me it’s because he loves me that he treats me this way. She tells me I can remember if I try hard and I can forget if I try harder. The lawyer wants dates, proof of conversations, those I briefed after the fact. But I told no one, not knowing there is a statute for sorrow, not knowing there is limitation to how long one may legally grieve their own passing. There is no secret diary, no hidden calendar. Court does not mean crime does not mean prison does not mean truth. The lawyer says you cannot attribute memories without witness, conversations without corroboration, you cannot remember certain things and forget others. You cannot summon a ghost to trial. You don’t understand, I say. The ghost is me.
