“hiding in the bathroom”

Hiding.

mothers joke about

hiding in the bathroom

to escape their children’s demands-

“mommy, i’m hungry!”

“mom, he’s looking at me!”

“mama, can i go outside and play? pleeaaase?”

i hid in the bathroom

to escape my husband’s glares.

when he walked into the room

his eyes never left me. disapproving,

full of anger and judgment,

exploring my face

to find fear and fault.

insults dropped on me

like successive bombs;

i could not take cover

from his barrage.

mothers joke about

hiding in the bathroom

to escape their children’s demands-

“mum, i’m tired”

“ma, she’s annoying me!”

“madre, are you coming out?”

i hid in the bathroom

to escape my husband’s strikes.

when his attack ensued

my back pushed into the wall

a headache unfolding.

my face slapped,

his handprint emerging.

my chest punched,

doubling over,

silently praying for protection.

mothers joke about

hiding in the bathroom

to escape their children’s demands-

i hid in the bathroom

not to escape my children’s demands-

but to escape my reality.

a rapid knock on the door

meant that i had been discovered.

a locked door sparked a cannonade,

so i kept my bomb shelter vulnerable-

penetrable and accessible to my attacker.

at times my hiding spot

felt like it was made of tissues,

so thin it didn’t seem to exist.

but sometimes my bunker

was infiltrated

by little feet, little eyes, little hands

seeking their mama-

telling her how “bootiful” she is

and how she’s “the best mama in the whole world.”

sometimes i needed to be extricated from this fortress

by the little lives that

gave me a reason to emerge,

even for brief, pure

innocent moments.