Waiting In The Dark

Mental Health, Relationships , , ,

“Wait here,”

he says in a whisper.

“Don’t move.”

I don’t.

He leaves.

He leaves

for what feels like

hours.

I wait in the dark.

Finally, he returns.

With leftovers in hand.

Mac and cheese.

Cold.

 

He sneaks me behind her back

to the room no one uses.

No one but us.

Every night for months.

 

I feel like a dog,

like a dirty secret,

like a

whore.

 

Whore.

The word his grandma shouts at me.

I am naked on his floor.

My instinct is to cover up,

but my hands are tied to the desk leg.

The triangle of light from the open door

shines on me,

illuminating my own judgment and shame.

He doesn’t try to cover me either,

maybe because

he thinks I deserve it.

 

Even when I am not a secret,

even when she forgets the whore,

she sits there glaring at me,

reminding me who I am.

 

Sometimes, it is easier to see who

we think we are

when we watch others witness us.

 

I have made sure that the light shines on me,

that I am no secret any longer,

but still, inside,

I am the dog, the whore,

the beloved by the unavailable,

the home wrecker.

Still waiting in the dark.

 

I wear the scarlet letter.

I gave it to myself.

I wove it into my breast,

and only I may remove it.

 

Here is the light better to see yourself with.

Here is the scalpel for when you are ready.

Here is the lighter for when you

have completed

your work.

 

Burn, burn, burn…

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