Maybe I Hoped That You Wouldn’t Come Back

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)

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