by Teresa Brickey (’23)
TW: relationship abuse, physical assault
White Rabbit
I don’t want to be the girl who writes about
salted scabs,
Escargot sliming
—————————down my cracked spine,
————————————————————————————nor
Soggy sundays.
But
Let me tell you about the slammed head against the bathroom tile,
Psychedelic sounds flowing through my fingers,
A razor broken away from plastic shards,
And stabbed sighs of relief.
Mama, I am sorry.
Winter, Baby
I like the cold. I was born in the cold. I was baptized in the cold. I had my first surgery in the cold. I had my first kiss in the cold. I like the way goosebumps form over my leg hairs in the cold. It snows for 72 hours and I sit in sadness. It is a sadness that I enjoy because I see it coming as the leaves begin to fall in November. It’s a predictable sadness, unlike in the other seasons.
Rosie, Girl
My mom used to bathe me in honey milk, bubbles brimming to the edge of our tub. She caressed my hair with shampoo beaming with the scent of roses, asking – who is the most beautiful girl in the world? Who is the smartest girl in the world? Who is the kindest girl in the world? I felt safe.
Then,
260lbs of slabbed skin pressed against my body, I dragged you from the bed to the bath in the July heat. Sweat and blood puddled at the corner of your mouth, I wondered if you’d die or if I’d die first. Getting you undressed was the easy part. “Hands up, head down, wait, don’t move too fast, okay, bend”. I washed your hair, gently. I washed your body, gently, I told you that I loved you, gently. You spit in my face and promised to kill me.
“I fucking hate you.” I fucking hate me, too.
Teresa Brickey (’23)
Between 2019-2021 I found myself in an abusive relationship, which culminated in a physical assault. Amidst and after my abuse, I found myself constantly journaling. It was a way to help me process and cope with the things that were and are still inexplicable about this time period of my life. My following poetry/prose pieces are a look into what it means to be a victim of domestic abuse and what it means to live with PTSD. On one end, I hope to offer a space where victims/survivors can feel seen, heard, and affirmed. On the other, I hope to offer outsiders a way to look in. My work is not wrapped in silk bows, nor do they give closure. Instead, they ask the reader to sit with the unsettled, to be uncomfortable, and to embrace not having all the answers.
Teresa is a Chicago-based writer and Master of Humanities candidate at The University of Chicago. She was born and raised in St. Louis, MO and prides herself on being a midwest gal. Brickey recieved her undergraduate degree from Saint Mary’s College in Notre Dame, IN where she studied Creative Writing and Global Studies. She now fills her time doting on her three cats: Shel; Smith; Sinatra, searching for the best chicken and waffles, and reading about Marxist theory. Brickey hopes to break the barriers of literary boundaries surrounding PTSD, Domestic Violence, and Mental Health. You can find her work in places like Analecta Magazine, Sledgehammer Literary Magazine, and Hey I’m Alive Magazine.