Lucky

It’s not worth mentioning the time he followed me
because it was not home, just until the streetlights grabbed me.
The relentless eyes across the table, the tongue dripping,
“Hey beautiful. I know you hear me. C’mon baby, talk to me”
are not “incidents” because they gave up.

I am lucky.
I have never gotten to the point of blood-splatters, gross abrasions.
I don’t carry bruises. “He’s never hit me.”
My unobstructed voice is hardly worth its whisper,
yet somehow smothers the sound of yells choked out from jaws - crushed. 

I don’t get a say if I’ve only ever been afraid
of the mouth of the forest at night,
of big hands, loud music, beer cans,
heavy breathing, being pushed against the wall.
The monster never realized, only lurking in ghosts’ stories.

I get to be alone with the person I trust the most,
meet a man for an interview, agree to surprise dates
live as if I can’t hear the girls saying,
“He was the person I trusted the most.”
Because it never happened to me.

I get to be “fearless,” compared to paralyzed,
walk with my hands around my purse, not waist,
able to forget for a moment who’s beside me.
When his hand reaches down my skirt
I clench my fist and say nothing.