He came to me,
suddenly, unapologetically,
said, ‘You’re mine.’
There was no courting,
no flirtatious glances
across the room.
Sounds were sucked
out of the world,
colours dimmed.
.
My insides wept,
pleaded and begged,
‘Not me. Why not
the next girl in
the next room,
the redhead down
the hall? Why me?’
.
But I looked in his
blackhole eyes,
stared into his
sunstorm grin,
said, ‘Fuck off.’
He only smiled,
terrifyingly,
charmingly.
.
The first thing
he took
was my strength.
A step out of bed,
the floor pulled out
from under,
an endless fall,
time seemed to linger
to watch me fall.
I broke a hip.
.
The next
he took
was my hair.
Locks like
wavy autumn leaves
littered the bathtub
the pillowcase
the kitchen floor.
.
Then
he took
my time.
Brunches with my
daughters, dinners
with my lover,
afternoons in the golden sun,
Christmases, weddings,
birthdays.
.
He then became bold.
Moved on
to my plans, my hopes,
my appetite
for flavours and for life,
my dreams
became shattered
reflections, harvested
through fragmented
hours of the night,
my smile,
damn how I missed my smile.
.
But for all that he took,
he knew I wasn’t his,
not yet,
not truly,
he knew I wasn’t his
until I decided so,
and I hadn’t decided so,
until I finally decided so.
Until I finally
took his hand
and let go of my lover’s,
my daughters’, my life’s.
.
But I sure as hell made him wait.
