You never hit me. But I’ve been hit before. I wouldn’t have flinched. At nine, I would have stood there with my arms extended, palms out. At ten, I would have anger in my heart. And eleven, hatred. But I wouldn’t have moved. I’ve been taught not to. At five, bruises aligned themselves on my legs. Sometimes I cried. Sometimes I didn’t. I cried for the person who hit me. Physical pain was nothing.
I never cried when you disappeared. Pain was for the one you left behind.
And so I stand. Unmoving. I cannot find you but I am here. So come. Hit me. Hurt me. Kill this.
I do not know you. But you are dead. I hope alive. I hope in pain. But not deceased.
It’s always the one left behind.