Slamming the Door

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.

Daughter,

You are seen.”

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