January 6, 2020

My Body is a Crime Scene.

My body is a crime scene: a head to toe assessment.

Where my hairline meets my forehead lies old wounds, the remnants left behind of an assault, hidden by my bangs—they are still there.

Behind my eyes are the million tears I’ve cried that make kaleidoscopes in my vision and blur much of what they have seen, but my eyes remain open—they are still there.

These ears have heard much: the harsh words of those I loved and those which I have spoken to myself; they hear my tribe’s victory cheer—they are still there.

My lips, far too long silenced with judgement, my mouth once kissed and stuffed with such force, attempting to shut it—they are still there.

My chest showcases those scars, left behind, cut by shards of sharp edges. I keep them hidden behind round necklines of my clothing—they are still there.

My heart races, blood pressure slowed and lowered by prescription medication for a girl far too young for such ailments; it has been been broken—it is still there.

My stomach, once starved, now filled with reflux rising up into my throat, burns on acid, choking on pain and silence—it is still there.

My womb, it has grown, bore, and birthed life, and it has carried and spontaneously aborted (that which we label as miscarriage) the miscarriages of both life and of justice—it is still there.

My spine, riddled with degeneration of bone and discs, curved by scoliosis from the weight forced upon it to stay postured and stand upright—it is still there.

My thighs, between them lies a sacred space of my femininity and womanhood, vandalized by a thief who broke in to steal the precious jewels of my innocence—it is still there.

My legs bear the weight of the pain I have carried for freezing instead of fleeing; they are strong and yet sometimes still buckle at the knee—they are still there.

My feet have walked the thousands of miles from captivity to freedom; it has taken years to get me to this destination by foot, carrying this broken body and the cross given to me to bear that wasn’t mine—they are still there.

My body, my home, washed away by the downpour of rains, pains, and years of silence of unspeakable crimes and unsolved mysteries, cold case files—still there.

My scars speak in a still-small voice of all the things I wish you knew.

My body no longer tells my story—I do. And there, but by the grace of God, goes I.

Some still search for proof from decades past. Hidden away, like a hostage in my own body.

The stories it could tell, if you just looked closer.

The answers it could reveal, if only you just asked.

My body is the crime scene.

And me? I am your evidence.


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Christina Lepore  |  Contribution: 20,055

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