It is a trick.
A violent sleight of hand.
For one blameless to end up carrying the shame of another.
It is an illusion.
One of the dark arts.
When the guilt of the guilty ends lodged in the heart of a victim.
It is pure deception.
When a tongue can tap dance so quickly.
That violence done by one becomes violence deserved by another.
And I hate all this.
I saw her come out of a gas station, change still in her left hand. She wore a scarf pulled tight. Her right hand took a corner of the fabric and pulled it, to cover her cheek. But it couldn't. There a vast and deep bruise lived. Brazen as it's creator, it peered out and dared be noticed. And most refused the dare, people glanced away from her, didn't meet her eyes. But I would not look away, because her eyes needed to be seen. She had become lost behind the bruise. She was still here, still alive, still standing. I and would see her. I can do little but bear witness. That I will do. I will will her my understanding, I will will her my support. The telegraph from the heart can be sent through the eyes.
So her eyes caught mine. Panic filled her face. Her hand pulled more firmly on the scarf, trying desperately to cover the shame of another. She glanced away, then glanced back, now I made my eyes smile at her. I gave her a thumbs up. Suddenly she knew what I was saying to her.
And she smiled.
Right then I knew why she was loved.
What I'll never understand is why she is beaten.