The day my family found out I was in the habit of finding myself at the local tavern they didn’t hesitate to travel from near and far to come see me. When they found out about the packets of cigarettes that knew the comfort and warmth of hiding in my threadbare bra, just behind the dark marks, a list of my crimes was read to me through chastising snorts and foaming mouths.
“Why can’t you just be a good wife”?
The day my family found out about the fresh knuckle marks under my eyes, breathing welts on my back and the ribs that may not fully repair, their phones echoed voicemails. When they heard about the list of unrepeatable names that flooded my weary ears, and stitched onto my skin, their feet no longer knew where my home was, nor did their voices know my name.
“Why can’t you just be a good wife?”
The Book Neighbourhood 