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how hard I try, once in a while
something makes me pick at it
until the scarring
bleeds.
In my arms, Ashante cries,
innocence ripped apart
by circumstance. Bloodied by
inhuman will. Time will prove
a tourniquet. But she will always
be at risk of infection.
ANGER MUSHROOMS
Inside me, swells to fill every crack, every pore,
every cell until I burn fury. I carry Ashante to
the bed, throw back the blanket, cocoon her with it.
“Stay here.” She starts to protest, but whatever
she sees in my eyes makes her acquiesce. “Don’t
worry,” I soothe. “She won’t ever touch you again.”
Not as long as I have anything to say about it.
My head throbs. My hands shake, sweat.
It’s hard to open the door. When I do, I notice
the silent hallway, remember the hour. Don’t really
care. Light trickles from beneath Erica’s door.
She’s wide awake when I storm through it,
into her room. “What the fuck have you done?”
SHE STARES AT ME
With meth-emptied eyes,
and when she smiles in silent
defiance, she is death, grinning.
I want to shake her. Want to
kick her ass. But what for?
