Of All The Stories I've Written, I Share With You, Stranger, These Few

Darling, I Expected It

I watched as you rampaged my life,
like the perfect spectator of a play,
I sat silently in my chair,
hands in my lap,
clapping at only the appropriate times.
Occasionally, I would turn
to the person next to me,
and comment on your performance,
on how angry and dangerous
you acted.
I would always say,
"I'm his Darling."

Only you weren't acting,
and you made that fact
so very clear to me
and only me.
That's what terrifies me the most about you,
the way you spoke for me
when the bruise on my arm
was mentioned
in a conversation with my mother.

It's just that,
curtain call can't happen,
if the love interest
is covered in blood.

For your information, Mother,
that bruise was not from a fall down the stairs.

Or when you laughed your way
through our date night,
looking like the person
I had loved so much,
calling me "Darling"
and caressing my cheeks,
but I knew
that as soon as you closed
the garage door behind you,
my name would stop being "Darling,"
that facade would fall
and you would turn into the monster
only I was allowed to know about.

Yet, I still allow you to scar my life
with ugly gashes you know
will never heal right.
I still hold the bow for you
as you nock the arrow,
it's tip facing me,
whispering

"Trust me, Darling."

But I don't trust you anymore.
I expected you to release the arrow from the bow.
And you did,
and you smiled as you did it, too.

How will you cover up this one,
Darling?