Pygmalion

When they found me
my eyes were tilted upwards
towards the window
towards the light.

A policeman said it seemed
as if I was looking for help —
Well of course I was
I had been looking for many, many years.

But she never went to the police, said a stranger.
She never came to me, said a friend.
Well then, I must have done it to myself —
Is that it? Just because you never knew,
until I joined the yearly death toll, doesn’t mean
I didn’t want to be saved.

I looked for help on the playground
when the boys held me down to look up my skirt.
The teachers just laughed and rolled their eyes —
Boys!

I looked for help in ‘family life’ class
when they said it was up to me to protect my precious purity.
Boys can’t control themselves, they said. You’ll see.

I looked for help in the movies,
among the heroes and romantic leads.
When Brando screamed for Stella in the rain
and she slinked down the staircase into his arms
to a sultry saxophone — I should have known then that I was done for.

I looked for help the night my party-drink tasted
funny, and I woke up next to a stranger.
My roommate told me I should be more careful;
my boyfriend called me a fucking slut:
I never told another soul after that.

By the time my boss slid his hand up my thigh
I wasn’t looking anymore.
His elbow rubbing my breast in a cab,
his rum-sweet mouth against mine in the lift
were just more bars for my cage.

So

the first time he hit me —
and the second
and the third
and the fourth —
I blamed myself.
There had never been anyone else to take responsibility.

The first few times he wrapped his hands around my neck
and pushed me hard up against the kitchen wall
I went carefully, deliberately, still
and waited for it to pass.
It always did, eventually.
(Well, almost always.)
Then the crying, the pleading, the cajoling —
Just like in the movies.

But the last time I stood there, passive,
I looked up and saw my daughter’s face.
She was standing in the hallway,
hair all mussed from bed.
She must have heard him shouting,
she must have heard so many times.
As she hovered, wide-eyed, watching —
I knew I needed to act.
I didn’t want her to find out the truth
of what men and women are.
So I shoved him with all my might
and he let go.

For one long moment we stood facing each other —
him, uncontrollable; me, a statue come to life.
And then I ran. But we both knew
I wouldn’t get far.

You never think of how complex your throat is,
of all the tiny, ornate structures
designed to keep you breathing.
Until you feel your larynx being crushed
and hear that little hyoid bone snap —
Then you know it’s over.

So don’t you dare
tell me
that I didn’t look for help.

I looked everywhere.

And you all said
Stop looking.