To Love Yourself

If my husband were my child, would I love him then? Gently, I glide my index finger against the blade of the kitchen knife. A line of blood drips slowly from it. In the metal of the knife, I can’t see my reflection. That makes me happy. Who would want to see an image of a woman torn apart from the insides with facial scars stitched across the wounds? I place the knife gently on the counter and carry the plate to him, hands shivering in fear.

If her body were his child, would he love it then? She carefully places the plate on the stool in front of him. His eyes remain trained on the football match in front of him. She stands like a servant beside him, waiting for his next orders. His eye twitches, next his eyebrow, then his fingers. Last comes his mouth which opens up to a gate of sharp insults and daggers aimed straight at her heart. She creeps slowly to the bathroom, eyes filled with salty tears. He hisses.

If you were your child, would you love yourself then? Would you find the strength to do what you have to? Would you finally look yourself in the mirror and see courage instead of fear? See beauty in the midst of chaos? Would you break free from the chains pressing deep into your skin? Or will you continue to cower in the shadows of your husband’s rage?