This is for those who think that going to shelter is the complete and final answer for women facing violence, the perfect solution for women caught in the nowhere land between the violence in their homes and the uncertainty of shelter space.
Noise is a myth here, like dust and sweat. Silence – but how do I speak of silence?
It fills my skull, like velvet in a jewel box. Or a coffin.
The arrangement of my body in space, the movement of my eyes, the vector of my gaze. I learn these things all over again.
Here I am the clumsy child who knocks over the table, who tracks mud over the fine rug, who takes up more space than strictly necessary.
I am learning to make my feet walk. I remind them to saunter, not to run, slide, skitter.
I stare at my own plot of nothing, a hole in the air all to myself. I touch no one.
I am not visible. I am never hidden.
And always I must mind the time, the time, the time. The clockfaces smirking, snarling, snapping at me.
The time that I beg, the time I am given.