What is there to do in a
dim lit room?
Do I dare strain my eyes
to glimpse at the sun,
only to shrink, recede
back into my frame?
Perhaps I ought to tell someone.
Perhaps I could sew the patches
back together.
Maybe I can scream out.
Then again, I could sit and
probe the cracks on the walls,
stop tiring myself
asking why I let him
dash through the front door
with rain-drenched hair
whenever he shows up to
steal a kiss.
Why leave when
I can stay here, lulled by the
dense breath of a fiend on my neck.
But then again, he's been loyal.
He's hovered over me,
stood on my bones for so long,
Battered my features, so
what's a little more damage?
maybe he's all I've got,
the only one chasing me to the bed
with a fist clenched around my neck,
squeezing hard enough to let the
salty water well up and blur my vision,
so he can be a man,
so he can grunt in my ear
with that repugnant rasp that
I
belong
to
him.
Maybe I've got Stockholm Syndrome.
I clutch onto the invisible hand
like a child,
breathing in sync till the morning.
YOU ARE READING
Today Wasn't The Best
Poetry"Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't after you." -Joseph Heller
