If I dwelt forever on the red spot
I would be washing twenty three and a half hours
Sobbing for a half.
If I broke forever at your belt
I would not have survived a month under your thumb,
let alone a day.
If there were no bird songs in the dawn light
I would have remained in the twilight counting shadows
and my waking dreams.
If it were not for the stories told
I would have spent every waking minute in Hell
sleeping on a cold floor.
If I refused to cover bruises
And wore them before others, their eyes would be
Mirrors to the past.
