Slamming the door, I run inside.
I throw my bag to the floor, wet hot tears streaking down my skin.
The salty waterworks wash away my make-up, my armor, my strength.
Globs of what remains collects on my chin.
I charge towards you, a mistreated ire in my expression.
“How could this happen?” I shout.
“Look at me! I’m falsely accused—they punish me for a crime I did not commit. Where is the justice? Where is the mercy? Why aren’t you caring for your daughter?”
I do not want to be wrong.
I do not want to be appeased.
I do not want to be understanding or empathetic.
I want to be right and praised and known.
I spit the words at you with biting venom.
But calm eyes stare back at me.
A hand wipes the tears and sniffling nose.
Your voice murmurs with all the love in the world,
“How could this happen? Look at me! I’m falsely accused—they’re punishing me for a crime I did not commit.
They betrayed, denied, gambled, mocked, and beat me. Whips licked my back, thorns brought blood into my eyes.
They pierced my sides and nailed me to a tree.
They let my breath become haggard.
They let me weep.
They killed me.
How could this happen? Look at me.
Daughter, you are understood.
You are seen.”