What do you do when your entire healing process
feels like the beginning of a murder ballad?

I realized that what he had done was not right
in the middle of the night in some faraway June.

I somehow fell asleep after that. Woke up
the next morning, the floor below me

trembling, a kitchen knife in my hand
for a split second. There isn’t a way

for me to be honest and tell you
I haven’t ever wanted revenge

at the same time. I do remember his full name,
but I do not say it out loud. I scrubbed

any evidence of him out of me, 
and now I reek of Good Survivor.

I am not supposed to fantasize 
about dropping a lit match in his jeans.

I am not supposed to have imagined
my fist lodged in his Adam’s Apple.

So what does that make me? On his level?

Too angry? A girl in a song only preparing herself

to be left in the water? But I don’t think 
I’m as hungry as I’m making myself out to be.

The truth is: if I ever saw him on the street, 
I would cross to the other side and hide myself

in the nearest shop. That doesn’t mean
I still haven’t woken up every morning

thinking God has left a weapon in my hand
in hopes of the river inside of me

finally flooding.