Then and now and again

Then I was 18
Wandering bottle shop aisles,
Driving through a rain-soaked haze.
I carry the weight of these days
Now I am 12,
knuckles bruised, rolled up sleeves,

Begging, praying—
Knowing no one will ever look at me.
Again, I am 27,

Shaking hands with men in suits.

My own feels like paper—

Stiff and of no real use.
Then I was 35,

Staring at his face,

Wishing I wasn’t his wife.

He reads the world as scripture,
But I am the blank page—
Unwritten, unnoticed.
Now I am 9,

A fortress of furniture against my door.

My old man sings so sweet

But his screams leave my head so sore.
Again, I am 17,

Crimson for the first time in years.

Not deep, just enough—

Enough to say: Look at me.

Enough to wonder if you’d ever hold me.
Then I was 15,

Twelve days absent.

The hospital light struck his face
With cruel indifference.
A body without a man,
A stillness I could not wake.
Now I am 20,

Stumbling and dumb,
Accepting
I will never really have anyone.

And then, when I’m 45,

I’ll gather my lies in my lap,
Fold them like a quilt of quiet years.
I’ll call you—soft, resigned—
To say goodbye,
And let the silence answer.