Come Back, Beatrice

He took you down the wrong path, Beatrice.

His word: a throttling master narrative.

Why have you stopped listening to your intuition?

He murders everything he touches.


No love in this man’s bones.

Misguidance in his fingertips.

Cobwebs on his tongues.

Entangled names of corpses all along.


He is a shadow, Beatrice.

Not the helpful kind, no completion.

This man is cold, his touch is a curse.

A longing to destroy, annihilate.


Beatrice, save yourself.

He is not who you make him out to be.

His mind is a map unfound.

Nobody will find you, least of all you.


Distorting yourself in the mirror.

Grimacing lips.

Mouth open, acceleration.

The big gulf, swallowing sadness.


Beatrice, let go.

They are too alike.

Eye to eye.

When you kiss him, his hand is a fist.


When you smile at him,

Everything hardens.

Trust the twitching features.

You are not welcome.


Beatrice, you should be warm.

Tormentor, Abductor.

Look at his eyes, shutters shut.

There is no way in.


He does not carry, he drags and stomps.

His penetration: anger release, frustration, agony.

Beatrice, get out of his room, his car, his pants.

Can’t you see? He is never with you.

Never on the same page.

Turn it and take your exit.



back view photo of woman in white dress walking in the woods
Photo by Flora Westbrook on


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