She’s drawing again.

I love it when she draws
and I’ve told her as much,
though I don’t think she suspects
how deep that actually goes.

I glance over between the lines on my page
for another glimpse of her mind at work.
Every shading is a new trauma processed,
every bold line a primal rebellion.

She’s coming to grips with the fear
that the man she’s with is a monster;
thinks he owns her,
        (what took you so long to get home last night?)
is easily envious,
        (what’s with that compliment you just gave him, huh?)
and he keeps her creativity constantly caged.

So a spark indulged is a survivor’s step
closer to the freedoms we inalienably deserve,
a path I won’t hesitate to walk beside her
despite all the demons I still contend with.
After all, it shouldn’t sit right with anyone
that of the three of us,
the happiest, most satisfied
is also the most inhumane.

Meanwhile the curious moon above
tries to hide its face
while she adds the finishing touches
to whatever image fills her mind.
I like to think it’s a field of rye–
whether hers or mine, it doesn’t matter
when the only prayer left in me
is that I will get the chance to meet her in it.