Ring Finger

I love him.

More than anything.
There is no tremor in those words,
and I do not say that lightly.

There's a ring on my finger.
A stone that says Always.
Choose this.
Forever.

It catches moonlight,
when I reach for his face,
when I wake at 3 in the morning
and whisper his name.

But I'm so scared.

Not of him.
Never him.

I'm scared of the ghosts
that follow me into safe places.
I carry whole suitcases of yesterday.
They spill open
in the middle of tender moments.
They whisper
Don't trust this.
Keep your guard up.
Don't close your eyes.

And I'm trying.
God, I'm trying.

But sometimes my mind
mistakes windows for walls,
kindness for camouflage,
and I pull away
from the one thing
I so desperately
want to hold.

I love him.
That is the truest thing
I have ever said.

Still, doubt moves through me
like wind across water,
rippling what was calm
moments before.

He deserves so much more
than this tangle of fear.

What if I never learn
to rest?
What if I always half-stand,
half-ready to run
from the safest place
I have ever known?

This ring circles my finger.
It does not loosen
when I tremble.
It does not slip off
when I question.

It waits.
Patient.
Unbroken.

I'm not afraid
of loving him.

I'm afraid
of hurting him.

I'm afraid of never
learning to believe
that I am allowed
to be loved.

 

Why Didn't She Run?

It begins with kindness
offered to a girl
whose life has more cracks
than windows.

A ride.
A place to stay.
Someone who says
You're special,
and waits
until she believes it.

Trust grows fast
in empty places.

He knows that.
He looks for it.

A pill to quiet the shaking.
Another so tomorrow feels possible.
She has to earn the next one.

Soon her body
needs the same hand
that holds the leash.

He tells her the police
will lock her away.

He tells her
no one will believe
a girl like her.

He tells her
her family already knows
what she's become,
reminds her often
that she chose this life.

Lies repeated long enough
sound like truth
inside a tired mind.

Outside,
the world walks past
on ordinary afternoons,
expecting a girl in chains
who never appears.

The real chains are quieter.

Addiction.
Fear.
A voice that repeats
you belong to me
until it echoes
in her own.

When people ask
why she didn't run,

they are imagining a door
she was taught
not to see.

—

Most people don't realize that sex trafficking happens in broad daylight. It's not always chains and cages in a dark basement in some third-world country. It happens right here, right down the street, out in the open. And she won't ask for help when you pass her on the sidewalk, because she doesn't know she can.