tracy, california

seventeen years.
i can't even imagine,
literally, cannot begin —
don't even tell me
it's part of the mystery
because those bruises —
i would say they
speak pretty plainly.

your silence scares me.
seventeen years.
they tricked you into thinking
that this was normal —
when did it go too far?
was it when they chained your ankle to the car?
or when they covered you with ashes
in an attempt to hide your bruises
from your own eyes

(maybe it was a careful balance:
we can do to him whatever we want
until he stops obeying
and starts running.)

i wish you'd known.
i wish you'd known to call the police
before you turned thirteen.
i wish you'd known to stay at home
because these people don't want you
to be alone.

and i wish i'd known.
when i saw you taking out
the trash that one day
your pale, drawn face
(you were emaciated and empty-eyed)
and i should have thought.
i should have known.

seventeen years.

every one of them was hell.