Dear John

They say your skin renews itself every thirty five days. My skin has been replaced thirteen times since you bruised it. My nails have grown and been cut off, my hair bleached, dyed and trimmed. Old scars have faded, others have appeared in different places.

I remember, sitting, counting the marks you doled out, recording their placement and shape as if I was writing a report. Unable to make sense of the previous night, I wrote down everything I could remember, then let my memory fade with the bruises. The swelling went down, I was able to walk without a limp again. But still, something inside of me hurt.

Sometimes it was a throbbing ache, sometimes a burning all over, like I had been neatly peeled. The pain was constantly in the back of my head, never lessening. And deep within the pain was the old me, that young girl screaming  no stop it you're hurting me please don't touch me don't don't why won't anyone help me stop please, forever repeating those five minutes. A phantom limb with a tightly clenched fist, impossible to relax and uncramp because it doesn't exist.

Perhaps a better or stronger person could have ignored the hurt, not picked the scab and let it heal with time. But I do not know how to do that. I do not know how to reconcile myself to a body that you covered in invisible scars.

I wonder if you would recognize me. I wonder what your life is like, who is in it. After you beat and humiliated me, did you go home and kiss your children and make love to your wife?

I thought your presence would fade from my life as soon as I got away, washed your smell off of me, healed my body and threw out the clothes you touched. Yet not a day goes by without me thinking of you.

Sometimes I wish I could hunt you down, make you feel as scared and violated and helpless as you made me feel. Other times I wish it had never happened. Mostly, though, I wish that I was the first and last person you ever did that to. It is easier to bear pain when it may have saved someone else from a similar trial.

I want to hate and cry and despise and scream and pity and throw things at you.

But I find that all I can feel for you is nothing.