How did I get here, on the floor?
Who is this man
With the red face and the red eyes?
He smiles like he’s nice,
But he’s not.
He laughs like it’s fun,
But it’s not.
He pulls my clothes
And rips the buttons off my new dress,
The one with the little pink and red roses.
I felt so pretty.
Now I feel dirty
Stuck here on the floor
By the stairs.
Little Roses
This is my inner five-year-old’s remembrance of a first date gone very wrong, circa 1987. You tell me why I dated this guy for several months. I refer you back to my previous post on becoming a woman of dignity — this takes time.
This poem is in response to today’s WordPress Daily Prompt, “Share the story of a time you felt unsafe.”
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Nov 21, 2013 @ 18:43:02
What a wallop of vulnerability and spare eloquence. Thanks for reminding us that dignity isn’t based on invincibility, but is the powerful remedy for invisibility.
Nov 21, 2013 @ 22:12:32
My inner child doesn’t want to be invisible anymore! Thanks, Terry.
Nov 21, 2013 @ 15:43:20
I think we led parallel lives. I’m happy to be older and sadly, wiser.
Nov 21, 2013 @ 15:45:32
Nice to know I’m not alone!