“You can tell me.” She says
looking down at me.
An unaffected smile
framed in lip gloss.
Her long fingers with nails
cut short but beautiful,
hold a file with my name
scrawled boldly across the front.
The other she lays on my back:
[on broken skin and welts
and belt marks]
Concealed by a pretty little
yellow dress with a bow.
I flinch away from the touch,
though I try to bite it back with gritted
teeth and giggled pain
and hide my grimace behind
a naked smile.
Her honest green eyes gaze at me
through her glasses,
like a scientist examining bacteria
through a microscope.
She sees straight through to
where my secrets hide,
chained to the walls
behind locked doors
and tight lips.
Asking me, “Are you ok?”
As I hear the clicking shut of a door.
My body, motionless, timeless, finds
agency of its own, and
rebels against its Keeper and whispers,
“No.”