I stood and watched you for a long time.
You breathed so deeply, heavy in your sleep.
A strand of hair rested on your eyelashes,
and I thought to move it, but thought I may wake you.
I didn’t want that. Not today. Not now.
I hunted through the kitchen drawers for a marker.
Silently, watching you, so not to wake you.
You were predictable in your drunken slumber,
in your unwashed stench with your yellow stained
hand in your pants. It was a sight too familiar.
I had packed a bag weeks before and hidden it well.
Placed money for your ego to find, and stored my own
in a safe place for this day. The day I don’t say goodbye.
No tears to be cried, and no love lost to mourn over.
The marker purchased for one reason: Your face.
As I walked to the bus stop that morning, to make my way,
far away, from you and the hell that had become my home,
I smiled at the knowledge that you would go to the pub
in your unwashed clothes, with your nicotine stained hands
long before you realised I was gone, or that I had branded you;