A Lover’s Faux Pas

To this day he won’t admit what it was.
In his brokenness, and mine, he pinned, drowned
me, pushed me, and thus his grief fable, down.
Broke in and entered–a lover’s faux pas.
Hellish red leather, hot under babe claws
scratching for mercy, reaching all around,
grasping, gasping for air, arms to surround
me with security– Force made me pause
beneath him. But I am not beneath him.
No. And it’s not crying wolf when the sheep
lie mutilated, when memory stains
reveal this harlequin’s bitter chagrin
at the truth that makes me weep; that this creep
moves on unscathed while I maintain dried veins.

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