Captive

I saw a young woman some time ago at the grocery store. Our eyes met. Hers darted away as fast as they had met mine. She grabbed her forearm and furtively looked toward her spouse to see if he had seen her infraction. 
 
Perhaps I read too much into our moment.

Perhaps not. 
 
It made me think of those among us who carry with them the appearance of freedom, the appearance of independence, but who are in reality trapped in their own lives, tethered unwillingly to another without a glimmer of hope or of escape. 
 
For those among us suffering this quiet desperate life, may you find the strength to set yourself free from the oppression that has bound your soul and silenced your voice.

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Captive
 
It wasn’t the way he stared at her with his cold eyes or the way his tongue flicked the barb of hay that sat on his bottom lip. 
 
It was his posture. It was the confidence of his ownership of her. It was the misplaced pride, the cocky arrogance he paraded with every smirk he cast toward her. 
 
She wasn’t going anywhere. 
 
I’ll stake your heart and gouge your eyes when you sleep. She plotted. But the thought waned as quickly as she contemplated it. 
 
She knew there was no escape. 
 
You may have my body, but you will never have my mind. She thought with a quiver in her heart, for he had her there too. 
 
She was lost. Bound in a prison, not of concrete walls or iron bars, but of her own flesh, bone, and blood.

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Be Well,
Van
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