Punched In The Gut
We argue about the garlic in the guacamole. He storms outside. I stand at the bathroom mirror, my shaking hand focused on my mascara. I hear the front door open, his footsteps coming up the stairs. He opens the door, and silently pounds his fist into my gut. “Now you can tell your friends I abused you,” he said calmly. A feminist activist and fierce advocate for victims of intimate partner abuse, my own life had become a constant eggshell dance. I justified buying a two-dollar tube of lipstick or a lunch with a friend. I defended a night at the
