I’m asked about proof
To give them something, something concrete
Unmovable, monumental heavy – truth
As if my words, my wounds
My wincing at menial situations
Or raised voices
If my waking in tears
Or screams
Or body jolting fear
Is not enough
They take you back through the fragmented memories
Which are much like being in a dream
You see yourself in one place
And focus on one thing
The wallpaper that morphed into galloping horses as you tried to distract your mind from in between your legs
The red hue of the velvet curtains that were more dust than fiber
The stairs
Leading up
But you’re going down
A muffled call from your sister telling you to run
But knowing it’s all locked
You’re in lock down
In a mansion of a home
With a whole room dedicated to image and status
Of green and gold armchairs
Pianos never played
Family portraits hung in extravagant frames
To take away from the distress on the children’s faces
My mind can go on and on with snippets of colour
And situations that never play out to an end
Overlapped by words that don’t string together
But I know my body
She’s smart, she does this
This stirring of events in order to protect what’s left of my innocence
She does it to ensure that I can keep that softness that makes me, me
And yet they keep asking me to rearrange her work
Rearrange and match the fragments
As if I’m a puzzle that needs to be put back together
All to provide proof, hard evidence
As if I am not enough.
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