Her left foot had captured her mind.
It locked her thoughts
And froze them in place.
It had dried now. The blood.
She stared at the place
Where it had lodged between her toes,
Where it crusted against her cuticles.
It pained her,
But it didn't hurt.
She couldn't feel it.
The injury, though, was soul deep.
Blood. Fallen from a place of mystery.
In her mind the blood was all that was left.
The only proof of her fear. Of her pain.
She would not remove it.
And, being a child of bare feet,
She dared the world to see it;
To understand it;
To acknowledge it.
She couldn't speak of it.
But her left foot spoke.
"Here it is. Injury testified."
"Here is the blood of her fear and pain."
See it. And know.
See it. And recognise.
See it. And understand.
See it. And do not look away in shame.
And yet...
Nothing was too shocking
To. Be. Ignored.
She closed her eyes.
And still she could see it.
How could they not see it?
How could they not know?
How could they?
She closed her eyes.
And still she could see it.
Though the bath water washed it from her.
They scrubbed it away... forcibly... without speaking.
Her pain, her grief, her fear, her confusion.
All washing down the drain
In a rush of soap and water
With a small piece...
Of her soul.
Gone. Erased. Forgotten.
Her left foot was clean.
It no longer spoke for her.
It was silent, clean,
And numb.
Four decades later
Her left foot spoke to her.
"Here it is. Injury testified."
"Here is the blood of your fear and pain."
She reached down, and it pained her,
But it didn't hurt.
She couldn't feel it.
She felt nothing.
© Kit, 26 November 2011
