Hidden Bruises

A Poem by CLBombay

You sit in front of the doctor's office when the female doctor happens to ask about bruises that cannot be seen. Your curse of being a bad liar comes in handy for others who want to get to the bottom of why you deal with shaky hands clattering on examining beds. This is usually what happens when people ask you questions that are easier to answer screaming in your head than through the quivering of your mouth. The doctor, a young, seemingly accepting individual wants you to pour your secrets. You've never met her before, but something tells you that your lack of cunning, lying skills will be what pries open a glimpse of what you deal with at night. Usually in daylight, the brain does not always remember what you'd like it to; day by day you get used to hiding in your brain the same secret marks other people cannot see. When you talk, sitting there with an open gown exposing your body, you remember how to expose the truth that somehow you find yourself second guessing every day in your head. The money you give him, the everyday worry of whether or not you've hit his veins, and the tip toe on the sidelines just to make sure you don't deny anything that could gain you a classroom lecture.

The poster sitting on the side of the wall that reads "Signs of Emotional Abuse," is admittedly more right on than most counselors you've seen in the past year. This is what you remember. This is what makes you cry at night when all he asks is for you to change your feelings that are already stuck in your soul; feelings that are harder to peel off than the gum on the bottom of your scratched up Converse.

Every day you brace yourself to not shatter from the blows of disappointed remarks that remain almost silent through slighted slips of the tongue. You want to scream that he shouldn't tell you that the way you dress embarrasses him in front of his friends when the way he treats you destroys you in public; you believe you have allowed passerby's questions to be brought up in the surface of water your head is hardly peaking over. Your life jacket disappears in every moment you stare in his eyes and your voice is sucked dry like a sand storm rushing through your esophagus. This happens in the moment of needed defense. This happens when you are drowning in waves of sand meant to bury the person you used to be.

This is what you remember, even in the blurr that comes with suppressing the truth when other people conveniently cannot tell it is happening. This is what you remember when a flicker of memories pain you in the middle of grocery shopping, the conversation you have with a friend, and in the middle of the teacher talking about war. This is what you remember when you have hidden bruises.

© 2015 CLBombay

Author's Note

This is in no way completely done. I'm a perfectionist, so of course I will editing this here and there. I just wanted to get it out and get some opinions on it. Thanks!