The great divorce
by Kate Gale
You can’t talk to me like this.
I told you. Or somebody told you.
Somebody ought to have told you.
I’ve suffered terribly. I’m fragile.
And therefore. You musn’t. No.
You don’t see. I’ve had to pick myself up.
Hold it all together.
I’ve been raped by pretty much
every male I’ve ever met.
A sort of rape anyway.
Something I would characterize as rape.
You can’t imagine.
You really have no idea. Don’t start.
Let me stop you. Let me pour myself a quick shot
of Hennessy and stop you.
No, I don’t want to go to therapy. Don’t you see?
This is who I am. That’s the problem with most people.
They don’t actually see you.
They see it. This thing you hold in front of your face
to keep them out. To keep them from knowing anything
they can hold against you, and they will.