In halcyon days, this place glowed. Our humble abode.

You would sing to me, Nights in White Satin. There was passion

Before it grew sterile, barren. A haze of heated bodies.

Nothing was mistreated, everything had its place,

No tears on my face; I was too young, too naïve.

Made to believe that you really loved me, I was

Deceived. The snake sunk its fangs into the girl who longed

To know life, to taste the sweet fruit. Your forked tongue flicked

In my mouth, just before you bit mine off. I became mute.

You re-laid the carpet in the hallway; ripped up the smooth pile,

Replaced it with razor-sharp eggshells. Drew blood,

Pierced my soft-skinned soles daily. Holes,

From all the pictures and their hooks, shaken loose

When you punched the wall. The doors locked from

The inside, but it was never me that held the key.

Imprisoned, forced to ask permission, to abide.

The fear in that flat; you dealt it, and I felt it.

So much hate within, it rotted you to the core. Bad apple.

I smelt it seeping out of your pores and into the air I breathed.

The flashbacks still desecrate my sleep. I’m there.

In your opinion, the kitchen is a state. Two plates,

from yesterday’s strained supper on the counter.

I’ve worked a double shift, come back too late to clean it up.

Tiptoeing into the fray, I know the acts of this play verbatim now.

Act I – Listen to the roar

Act II – Look at the floor

Act III – Edge towards the door

Act IV – Plead and implore

Act V – Know I’m done for

The pupils in your ophidian eyes constrict.

You hiss “I’m going to flip my fucking lid”.

The screams I wanted to scream, but never did.

By Jordanne Kennaugh