i am writing a paper about using narrative therapy with battered women. and while reading some of my sources, i came across this poem...

my birthday

i went to hell this week

i watched a man with gaping mouth
scream with no sound.
bent above the body of his dead wife,
he'd been screaming, thusly, for a million
knife in hand.

below another knife i saw
a man and woman tear asunder
a child
who had trusted both without question
but finally questioned both the same.

and, then, a mirror image of myself
showed me the door and handed me
a bloody key.

i escaped
wounded, but free.

elaine lawless 1978

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