Tattooed

Every time I undress, I’m haunted by my history - 

an articulate mosaic of pain sketched on chapped skin. 

I don’t want to be reminded of the tally marks you scratched 

into my thighs every time I pleaded with you to stop. 

Or think about the way you moved my body like it was 

your own puppet, and I was just a prisoner trapped 

inside the corpse, captive to your commands.  Or remember 

how you held my breath every time I tried to yell for help. 

Each time placing more pressure as you pushed down 

into my neck until my head no longer felt attached 

to the rest of my body and you’d remind me five more 

seconds like this is all it would take for my life to expire. 

I want to be able to feel the simple pleasure of touch 

from someone I love without waves of panic pulsing 

through my whole body causing my spine to shudder 

and shrivel up leaving me closed, cold, longing, and lonely. 

I wish I could stop myself from falling into the trap of triggers 

that you left me with, but they are carved so deep inside 

my muscle memory, like an addiction without a receipt 

or a return address. I can’t discreetly drop them like 

chewed bubble gum onto a dirty sidewalk or exchange it 

for something a little less toxic.  I stay up past midnight 

hunting down red flags and learning to breathe deeply. 

I keep my shaking hands clutched onto cardboard coffee cups; 

burning fingers and begging sunlight to keep me safe 

for just one more night, I try to pray, and I try to plead, 

but my skin holds on tight to the stains of your memory. 

— Jenna Gleason