She made me do it. She didn’t get the hint.
Obviously I didn’t want her anymore.
Simple things change. It didn’t feel right.
There have been others. I owed her no reason.
Whether too old, too bright, too cosmic,
She wouldn’t accept it.
She came to take her furniture.
After all I’d done for her. I needed it.
She stood her ground.
Her quietness was the spur.
It invited me to strike.
The barbed truth prodded my hands
to encircle her neck,
grab her thin body and throw it
like a curse across the room. Who would have thought
she’d be so light.
She bounced off her old table, fell against the lounge,
I nearly laughed.
I pushed her from my house.
Threw her bag after her.
She provoked it. Henry the Eighth got away with it.
Everyone says there’s two sides.
He dropped the blade on our love,
laughed when he dismissed me.
Kept my furniture. To compensate for
all he’d done for me.
So I visited to ask for it, my heater to keep me warm
now I was alone.
Like Anne Boleyn on the block I
meekly placed my head.
He pushed me. I flew across the room, ricocheting
off the table, hitting my old lounge.
My head rings still.
My injuries added to his insults.
Once he called me his gentle rose.
Excuses are words not blows,
certainly not the black marks on my body.
I wanted to salvage my belongings,
remake my tattered life,
to extract the thorn and release the angry pus
Everyone says there’s two sides and
asks whether I provoked him.
I stood my ground, wept, now
weep no more.