The jar in the kitchen keeps dust and probably your broken bones.

I once tried to open it; you said the money was for us. I wondered if “us” consisted more of you and your secondhand outfits.

The jar in the kitchen keeps dust, your broken bones, and probably your lipstick stains.

I used to sit on the sofa and the window was always open. The men kept grabbing, and slowly I think they broke your body.

The jar in the kitchen keeps dust, your broken bones, your lipstick stains, and probably me.

I laughed when we paid rent together, thought it was going to become a routine. You said we had incomes now.

The jar in the kitchen keeps dust, your broken bones, your lipstick stains, me, and probably your tears.

I didn’t come out of the room when they took you to the police car, not even when they said I was safe.

The jar in the kitchen keeps dust, your broken bones, your lipstick stains, me, your tears, and probably solitude.

It took me seven days of content to realize you gave your all. It took me seven days of imprisonment to realize the money you saved for tuition was in my bank account. It took me seven days of nostalgia to realize you opened the window so I didn’t boil inside. It took me seven days of gratitude to realize you told me jokes so I’d forgot everything we didn’t have. It took me 18 years and 11 months to realize you were there when I was not.

The jar in the kitchen keeps dust, your broken bones, your lipstick stains, me, your tears, solitude, and not an ounce of whore.