TRINITY SALDANA

I was so sure the batteries in the alarm were bad. It never beeped, it only chirped. It chirped when you slammed the dog against the bed. It chirped when you hit your fist against your head. I pushed the test button twice, when I left you and went to a hotel. When I told a friend. But it never beeped. Maybe there was a volume dial on the bell. I may have turned it down. It chirped the day you grabbed the steering wheel. It chirped the nights you chose to fuck me dry. I even tried to warn you that the alarm was going off, that someone would hear it. You laughed and told me there was no alarm. That if there was, it was my job to turn it off. I worked so hard then To cover shrink deaden numb The source of the noise. Because if it wasn’t an alarm, then it was just Me.

Ear piercings, a rite of passage for little girls Who go to the jewelry store at the mall And sacrifice themselves to a blunt gun and a college student. I got my ears pierced when I was ten. Ten was old enough to know, Even back then, That my innocent lobes were the first And last hole I ever wanted punched Through my body. Ten was old enough to feel the weight Of permanency along my skin. Somehow those holes never healed. Every new ring and stud created Pain, swelling, and crusty layers Of inflammation. My body prepared me for allergies To all types of beauty: Skinny, femininity, fertility. Each allergy a punched hole from society’s dull gun to my heart. Each blow left a murmur to my soul Stretching wider, culminating into one beat Thrumming surges of pain Through my blood. Pulses that scream: “You have failed your womanhood. You have failed your standards of beauty. You cannot be a mother again.” There is no salve for these open wounds. Only agony, and then Acceptance. My ear piercings never closed. I tried everything to fix them. I even left the holes empty for over a decade. Maybe they alone understood that Holes made with the bluntest of hollow guns Didn’t want to feel so solitary.