My Body Remembers

Originally published on Blood Into Ink

my body remembers
what my mind
tries to forget
why don’t you drive?
an innocent question
unexpectedly the key
to locked door of memory
teenager without a license
forced to accept a ride
I did not want
my body remembers
idling in the driveway
praying that someone else is home
tinny voice of the Red Socks announcer
droning out the play by play on the car radio
smell of Tijuana Smalls
mixed with his cologne
mingles with the odor
of my sweat
my anxiety
I sit as far away
as the small sedan will allow
curl myself defensively
around my exposed left side
swallowing down panic
that tumbles like gravel
in my throat
will he let me get out without incident
or will he cut me with pointed words
trying to trigger my self-loathing
my shame?
will he invent an excuse
to touch me with those sweaty hands
marking me unclean
leave his fingerprints
scorched on my skin
again?
I am older now
stronger
angrier
but I have been asked
not to make a scene
to be grateful for this favor
smile and say thank you
I will play nice if he does
I think to myself
the words as sharp as shark teeth in my head
my body remembers
how desperately I long
to be anywhere but here
this locked metal cage
with my tormentor
my abuser
my body remembers

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