An Invitation

His words bruise me,
and they are meant to.
Full of malice and pointed sharp,
they stab and prick,
and leave daubs of blood to dry on my skin.

A fool
with little self control
I cry out for help
unable not to look
at the places where he leaves
his snares
and traps
baited.

I reach out to a friend
for help
and he offers it in a way that startles me.

Ask three times he says to me.

It shames me that I cannot turn away without help,
that my self control is so lacking.

I have asked twice.
both times after long thought.
It would mean no small thing for me to ask for a command.
It would mean no small thing for him to give one.
Such things
bound in my respect for him
and his trust in me
would hold me stronger
than my own instinct for self preservation
which at times of late has been a paltry thing,
small and weak.

Such a simple door
and I am afraid to open it.
Those spaces beyond its threshold are vast.
I am too raw yet, to ask
for a steadying hand, no matter how kind that hand,
no matter how familiar.

That third request,
looms in the quiet
scented like night blooming jasmine.
Within its shape are the sounds of jingling anklets
and trusting laughter.
I sense blushing cheeks,
and shy bare feet,
tucked under hips.

Some doors
are easier shut right now.
These doors within me
were meant to be paper screens,
and gossamer curtains.

I have made them into iron,
spiked and hard,
reinforced by my fear and hurt,
Everything within me rebels
at that rigidity.

I touch the question
and its beetle wings open
iridescent green.
It lifts into flight
and the filament I hold it by
is a strand of my own hair.

He is kind to me.
He touches the door,
but he will not open it
without invitation.