You touch things that you don’t know anything about.

You cradle a misplaced appetite.

A desire unwelcome.

Your body is blind to doors pointed toward.


You dominate her wrists.

You exerce a pressure that your fingertips are ignorant about.

You fool. You know exactly how it feels.

Repetition is a demon.


You orbit her, treating her like prey, yours to hold.

As she shuts doors, she feels safe and lies to herself.

Looking at the ring, thinking gold instead of misery.

Your blows come out of nowhere. You let nothing be known.


As she crouches in a house where the walls come undone,

The anticipation of his violence is silent, the steps fast.

She is the scapegoat. He corners what he pretends to love.

The tantrum-throwing boy in a man’s body.

There is a reason why this woman gravitates toward the window,

Growing wings he made her deem unfit.

All the better they alleviate her.


“Not at Home” by Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema (1836-1912)

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