There. Is. No. Pill. For. What. The. Body. Remembers.

For the fists that ravaged your bones
splintering your reflection
from the inside out,
leaving your spirit torn
into jagged rags of grief
 
For the watercolor, stormy inkstains
that followed the beatings, the pinching,
the moments when you dared say
something wrong, out of tone,
indifferent
 
For the moments when you said no
but he forced himself next to you,
on top of you, inside you,
under your flawless, glowing skin where no
amount of cleansing can ever
restore the shininess of what he stole,
leaving you ragged and dull

For the times you let men touch you
because you were lonely, alone,
or just felt so loathsome
that any burst of connection
was welcome in your sorrow
 
For the babies
who wanted to flourish
but could not find a way to attach
to the rigidity that crept its way into
your body and metastasized,
leaving your womb an
empty coffin of your
worst imaginings
 
For all the suffering and sorrow
for every harsh, piercing word
that settled in your chest,
fanning out to your lungs
organs, tissue and blood,
reaching deep into your marrow
to whisper that you would
never be good enough
to feel robust again
The memories leaching into
every pore, even
the ones you can’t recall
but that the body recollects
Those ones where there will
never be a pill
to purge
its remembrances

inspired by Claudia Love Mair