Daffodil

      As a child my favorite flower was the daffodil. I loved the bright yellow petals, the amusing shape, the way it stood strongly on its stem. It seemed like a flower with something to say.

      I was sixteen when I got my first tattoo. The needle stung, but the pain left me something new, something beautiful, something I could call my own. Something more than my skin.

      I was sixteen when I got into my abusive relationship. In those days he had sweet lips and innocent eyes. Two young faces blushing in the sunset and wondering what love felt like.

      I was seventeen when he changed. He learned my bruises, knew how to press the parts of me that hurt and make me think I was putting myself in pain. I thought that was what love felt like.

      I was seventeen when he insulted me and told me he loved me in the same breath. He always expected something, and I stumbled to give it to him. His hugs stayed tight, and I stayed.

      I was seventeen when he raped me. My cheek pressed into a dirty locker room floor, his hands holding me in place, hurting my hips. I waited patiently, drove myself home afterwards.

      I was seventeen when he broke up with me. I did not know how to leave him, and he was finished with me. 

      I was eighteen when I recognized the abuse for what it was. I didn’t know how to blame him. I saw him every day in my high school’s hallways. My body became used to feeling nauseous.

      I was eighteen when I tried to tell my family what he had done. They didn’t believe me, and they didn’t want to. I didn’t want to, either, but my body left me no choice. 

      I was eighteen when I reported him to my school. I relived my story over and over, desperate for a pair of ears to listen. There was no action taken, and he managed to silence me again without even being in the room. 

      I was nineteen when I left my hometown. Stepped on a plane and found myself on pavement he’d never touched. My heartbeat calmed, my stomach eased. I found safety and strength within my body. 

      I still find fear and anger and sadness, too. My body is a beautiful thing, can hold so much inside. 

      I was nineteen when I got my third tattoo: a simple linework daffodil on my hip. Where his hand had pressed too hard. Daffodils are symbols of forgiveness and rebirth, flowers with something to say. 

      I am still learning how to be a daffodil.