To the two boys who mugged me this past weekend.
Were you searching for your father in my eyes? Did the look of fear on my face mirror everything you wanted him to look like when you finally stood up to him? Did the plea for my life in exchange for everything I had remind you of your mother? Did I sound like your sister late at night when your father thrust into her? Did I sound like you when you begged him not to hurt you? And still he entered your back door like it was a home he owned.
Does your mother know where you go when you say you will be playing soccer with the neighborhood boys? Did she kiss you on the head that night and tell you to be careful of bad friends? Tell you to be careful not to get mugged? I wonder if she noticed her knives missing as she tried to make supper. Sat down and cried when she figured you had taken them. Maybe that’s what was in that bag you had walked out of the house with. Maybe she fell on her knees and begged the gods to protect my life. Maybe that’s why you didnt stab me. Maybe your mother’s prayers kept me from your demons. Maybe the look in my eyes looked all too familiar. Maybe you are not a killer. Maybe your hurt wasnt meant for me.
I hope you found yourself in my bag. I hope you found some meaning in my purse. Or maybe you found none. And even then I hope you decided to look for it in the right places. A church maybe. Or some books. A woman that would bring peace to you. Or a man that would hold the hurt.
Me? I’m fine. I failed to sleep last night. My partner held onto me so hard I could not breath (literally). Everytime I tried to fall asleep the feel of your knife on my stomach crept up. The memory of my fear soiled my sheets. The woman that helped me insisted I speak to a councilor. I declined. I already see a therapist, you will be the topic of conversation at this week’s session. Today, i’m fine.