My husband pushes me with prodding questions about my sexual history
It enrages him that I don’t display the intimate details of my past like trinkets at a flea market
He pries with jealous tones in his voice
He has nothing better to do than ‘solve the riddle’ of how many men have slept with me
I tell him the truth; I don’t know
I don’t tell him why there were too many to count. Early abuse trained me to be sex-trafficked, I was overworked and undersold
There are experiences in my life that I didn’t ask for
Uninvited guests who ruined my party
I have been violated more times than I’d care to tell
I don’t want to relive that hell
He is undeserving of such personal and painful information
His prying unlocks in me that deep dark, that suicidality that was once my constant companion
Standing face to face again, it is clear how much I have healed over time, and yet
I understand why ending my life is a natural conclusion
To take back my body, reclaim my flesh as my own
To liberate myself at last from the unbearable physical memories he invokes with his dredging interrogation
He cannot fathom the damage he causes
We end this round shouting
I dread and prepare for the inevitable; the next time he broaches the topic
When he demands out of the blue that I recap the worst moments of my life, I feel energetically destroyed
I start to count the cars on that long train of trauma and feel like a trapped animal, desperate for a way out
My old friend suicidality extends a hand, ‘I am here for you, when you feel pushed.’
