day of re-mem-brance
that moment in the front seat
haunts me even now

I've heard more than once, "it doesn't happen to women like you".  So when it does happen to women like me, we're too ashamed to disclose, because it makes us the other kind of woman.  The kind that deserves to be hit - or asks to be, or courts it. 

I remember the beige car.  The fabric on the front seat.  Arguing about keys and destinations.  I remember how it felt to have my arm repeatedly bashed against the steering wheel, me crying, asking him if he understood how much trouble he'd be in if he broke my arm.

And his cold, mean voice asking, "you think they wouldn't understand, after meeting you?"

The days of bruising, after, both on my arm and in my soul - when his words were more harmful than the blows to my arms - slowly believing in my own shame, my own deserving of the situation.  He'd be understood, afterall, right?  It was my fault.

And the note, the one I still can't talk about.  That note, haunting dreams and making me have night terrors to this day.  The damage is deep.

Today's a national day of remembrance.  I lived.  I left.  I moved on. So many women never got the chance.