My hands held on to the cold ornaments of the banister.
The flesh of my young face squeezing itself through the
Ringing black corset stems and I waited for you to come
Back to me, up the beige stairs, every single heavy step.
And jealousy erupted under my skin, her blonde hair
Tightening its grip around every beat of my fingernails.
You would see her first, but I had been the one waiting,
The one accepting discomfort and exhaustion. None of
It mattered, to you, when she came a-running toward you,
I had never been fast enough, not overtly loving, blasphemous.
Every single move landed on scales, sacrifice measured against
Sacrifice. You looked into your own face when you looked at mine.
Your hips brushing against my head and I couldn’t do
Anything else except absorb your unwelcome behaviours
And sentences. She became an easier target than you.
The way you cheated and corrupted and procreated and cursed
What freed itself from women’s wombs. I wasn’t old enough to
Turn my back on you.
She received your protection and I reminded
You of yourself and ended up in the darkest of corners and you
Knew that predators would always find me there and they
Took what they wanted whilst you were licking the faces of
Unknown women and I would wait for you to come home
After you had your fun and I was robbed of my childhood.
“Still Life Glass, Silver Goblet and Cup of Champagne” by Henri Fantin-Latour (1836-1904)