I have become a soaked rag
in need of twisting dry.
I’m daily tormented
by
the addictive question of
why.
I keep to myself
inside
locked doors,
speaking only to
walls and
doctors.
Yes, I know my panic
makes me a blinker.
No, I’m not a coffee drinker,
just an
over-
thinker.
I spent thousands of dollars
on my biggest regret.
Tomorrow refreshes
but muscle never
forgets.
What doesn't kill you
makes you an artist.
And frequenting funerals
makes you a
florist.
I mourned you
until I became
bored of you.
You think you’re bold as black
but you’re a
pale
photograph.
Treated me like a
knockoff
styrofoam plate,
fork holes
like bullet holes
from your slice of
chocolate
cake.
My no was a whisper
when it should have been a roar.
The aftermath is
farmácia receipts
and gauze
on the
bathroom floor.
Grabbed by the neck
and yanked by the dress,
forced to open my mouth
“lest we make a mess.”
You caused my tearing
yet blamed me
for my fury.
You raped me
yet called me
violent
for kicking
and screaming.
And now you’re chauffeuring me
to my healing,
scoffing at my ouches
because your weapon
is free of
feeling.
Specks of
cayenne linger
on my dining table.
Red.
Like your pale,
jaundice eyes
and entitled erection.
80’s hair,
blue eyes,
like a Good Guy
with sinister intentions.
I repeated no
in far too many languages.
It’s getting old,
blaming you,
for being
pushed
past
my edges.
I can take
myself
to the doctor,
arriving through
emergency doors
with
blood-soaked
clothes.
And daggers
like peacock feathers.
I wear them like
fashion.
Boils and bruises
from never taking caution.
I told spells in my misery
and in turn Life cursed me.
I asked it for a break,
and so it did:
It broke me.
© Stephanie Khio 2024