Intercession
I wonder if my future self is calling out to me. I wonder if she is happy—if she looks back on me encouragingly. Does she know that we deserved better all along? I imagine she is beautiful. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror—not in a vain way, but the way a mother looks fondly at her child. My eyes fill with tears when this happens. I hope she knows how beautiful she is now. I hope she protects our hearts carefully, the way no one ever taught us to.
Where she lives—wherever she resides now—are there men who scream at her? Men who shout, again and again, that they want her out of their lives simply for naming the truth, for saying, you are lying? Or has she found safety? Has she become successful—not in the way the world measures success, but in the quiet way of choosing herself? Does she trust the body that has carried us faithfully toward becoming whole?
I hope she does. I pray for intercession. I plead with the air itself, as if my wishes might travel to her, as if she might hear me and reach back through time to manifest a better future. Sometimes I imagine she will scoop me up from this place, lift me out of the wreckage, and tell me I survived.
I grew up miserable. I suppose that is why I am here now. I learned early that nothing good ever stays. Goodness is fleeting—you learn that young. It lives only in the space between blows, between being thrown against the wall. One moment, there is laughter; the next, you are blindsided by betrayal and bruises. Back then, the bruises were blue and purple. They were teeth knocked out beside the laundry machine. Now they are invisible. Now they scar my heart.
This is the present. The abuse no longer leaves fingerprints, but it still teaches fear. Still teaches silence. Still whispers that love must hurt.
And here—unfortunately, terrifyingly—I am the only one who can save me.
So I hold onto the image of her. My future self. The woman who made it through. The woman who knew what good could be. I walk toward her even when I am exhausted. Even when my hands shake. I keep going because somewhere ahead, she is standing firm, waiting for me, and I believe—despite everything—that she is free.
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