These are the memories that I never had, memories my body now has without me, reenacting long-ago events patiently until I know.

Hands pressing on my throat, choking me. Thumbs digging in. Pressing too lightly to kill me but hard enough to leave imprints that I feel fifteen years later, seventy-five miles away.

Hands pressing their way between my legs, tracing me like felt by the square inch, burning their trails in to resurface decades later. I see their afterimage behind my eyelids, like fireworks after the bang: persistent, painfully loud, but distant.

Hands pushing me open when I resist, sharp fingers, unstoppable ghosts. I used to think they were ghosts; the result of denial and cluelessness both. Ghosts lying on top of me if I slept in the wrong spot on the bed, ghosts I dreamed were trying to assault me, ghostly cold presences haunting my room.

Later I learned more, learned to recognize body memories for what they were: rememberance of things past, hiding in my body. Subterranean clues to what happened long ago. Stories unfurling with the curling of leaves.

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.