This Poem Isn't About You

Content Warning: sexual assault and allusions to suicide

It’s 7:26am.

He’s snoring.

Why do they always have to snore?

You listen –

You think how easy it would to reach out, and

Strangle him

Watch him

Die

 

Right there

in front of you.

 

You don’t.

This is

Not

 

Him.

 

Pause.

 

Breathe.

One.

Two.

 

Three.

 

A new scent chokes you.

You’re relieved it’s not the smell of love

or despair

or a year that is now ash

from cigarettes on his lips.

 

Eyebrows furrow,

lips make this fucking half-smile that you thought was

reserved for

Just

 

Him.

 

And as you kiss

you forget

who this person is.

And you panic.

You need to remember.

 

You want to know that this is someone

New,

something

New.

 

That you’re not going to wake

with your heart

Cut out. Bloodied bed sheets.

With fifty missed calls, and

A suicide note.

 

You wish you could take a

Fork
to your brain

and mash out all those memories.

Chequered shirts

Plaster wood

Borrowed chairs

Awkward drinks.

 

And now you

Need

to breathe that smell of

someone else’s flesh

and sweat.

 

One.

Two.

Three.

 

You’ve forgotten what it feels like –

to have someone touch

your skin.

You’d never thought

you’d want to feel that again.

 

But this skin,

this skin is yours.

And not his.

 

And he can’t touch

You

Now.