Here, take it. I don’t want it anymore. Here,
hold it, you have been careless with it, so
it is my gift to you;
to throw in the trash, like you did my words.
Crumpled pieces of me that meant nothing.
Like you did the gifts I gave you.
Still lying unopened stuffed in cupboards, with
all your other miscellaneous trinkets.
Here, take it. I would rather a gaping hole where
no nerve endings can be seen,
than a bloody mess that pumps only to be able
to stand and pretend, that today will be any different.
Here, let me make you dinner and try so hard,
to be a good girl.
That says kind things.
That demonstrates love – through the
darkness, untamed and real.
Here. Please. I beg you – take the fucking thing. It is,
after all, just a thing. The beating sincerity and the
dripping pain I try so hard not to show you.
But I am drained.
Just take it. Put it in your baggy jeans pocket and let the red stain the
seams as evidence that you won. You came out unscathed, having done
nothing, to make me feel like I was anything more
than a maid. A cook. Someone who humored your
simplicity in the bedroom so that YOU felt safe.
I beg you. Take it and walk away.
I cant feel anymore than I do – and this much
I become dangerous. I become cruel, so please go
because you dont recognise me at all, and before
my hurt destroys the goodness that still hides inside you.