Day Eighteen

 

A lurch of visceral fleshed mysteries inside

stone faced unconcern as my heart howls.

Hot plastic bus seat stuck to my thighs

commanding the future in internal growls.

An inch bubble of air prickles above my much

freckle speckled skin. Smooth orchid petal, rare

yet sensitive and aware of casual touch

dear fly. I am a sulphured match poised to flare.

How I yearned after your sly clever smile.

To push the errant hair that threatens to spill

over your eyes – your true heart and all the while

A stubborn sense of right and wrong and the will

to set your shoulder against the ill and push.

To think your way through the world even now

Today I’m glad to be your friend and would blush

to know you’d read my heart and knew that how

from my bed I could see your bedroom light

shining across the block of hunched moonlit shrubs

and, dreaming, flung the end of my regard into the night.

Thin spun filament, a-thrum between us as I touched

myself. I dreamt sweet happy hopeless things

tenderer for the fact they’d never see fruition.

That scent, a rotten one – wasp eaten apples bring.

I will never mix touch with love of my own violation

The men I fucked; older, harder, on the make

I cast myself as a slack poppet – pliant to their desire.

Sex already tainted. Bent early out of shape. I

gave myself no choices. Delivered what was required.

Now wrapped in hard won happiness it is easy

to look back. Laugh, show regret but there’s no shame

in picking you – or those feelings. Instead I feel queasy

with pity and sorrow. It is hard not to blame

Yet blame never brought me change. I did  that.

Myself. Cognitive reconstruction – catastrophe

meant court sent self examination. Gave me back

choices. That led me to him, them and intimacy.

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