Maybe I wouldn’t

have spent so many nights

aching in my center,

the spot on the female body where he came from

but takes for granted

and used like its meant to shrivel up.

He reached for my petals

the moment

they were most tender

and plucked them off

devouring them

like they were simply a consumable.

Maybe I would still have that outfit of mine

instead of it residing

in Portland Polices

evidence storage unit.

Maybe I wouldn’t

have spent 8 hours alone in the E.R.

waiting for that kit

staring through tears down at the bracelet

my mother gave me

wishing she were there

because the shame was too paralyzing

to tell a soul.

Maybe I wouldn’t have spent months

not trusting my own father.

Maybe I wouldn’t have stared

in disgust

at my center

as if this temple

could ever be tarnished.

Maybe I wouldn’t

have been scared to death

of running into him in public.

Maybe I wouldn’t of associated violence

with sex

for so long.

Maybe I wouldn’t have stared

down at my center

wondering if she’d ever

come back to life again.

Maybe I wouldn’t have

sworn off

dating men for so long.

Maybe those months

would’ve been spent enjoying the gift

that is this body

instead of numbing it out with poison.

But

maybe I would never had realized

the true tenderness of this body

that the petals aren’t meant to be plucked

that I am my own roots

and the soil that surrounds them.

Maybe I wouldn’t have learned

how to comfort myself alone

how to build my own cocoon

when the silk from others

just isn’t available.

Maybe I wouldn’t cherish

the restful nights

the way I do now.

Maybe I wouldn’t have learned

how to change my associations

with something as tender as

sex.

Maybe I wouldn’t have ever discovered

that I’m attracted to women too.

Maybe I wouldn’t of learned to listen

to my body

even when it’s broken.

Maybe I wouldn’t have the compassion

for others

that I do now.

Maybe I wouldn’t have learned how to forgive

someone who harmed me like he did.

Maybe I would’ve never learned

how to pour my heart onto paper.

For there will be many other tragedies in this life

I just wish he hadn’t ripped the band-aid off

then stabbed me in the same spot.

–I am still bleeding, but I now know how to apply pressure to a gaping wound.