poems on steps


“If I had to
say exactly
what was the thing
that made everything
go wrong between
us — I’m sure
I couldn’t.

Because I like
to think it is
always my fault.
And I’m pretty sure
I am to blame.
So when he grabs me
by my arm,
and pushes me
against the lockets,
I know.
He has found out.

And I already
have a million apologies
hanging around my tongue.
He clenches both fists
and I’m positive
he forgot he was
surrounding my arm with
his hand.
Because he wouldn’t hurt
me, even when
I deserve it.

He spats words
that sound like a
question — 
‘Did you fuck him?’,
but we know there’s no
doubt in that.

I clench my teeth
and they hurt because
I have already emptied
my stomach four times — 
there was blood in
the last flush.
I nod and he
slams the hand
that is not gripping me
against the locket,
right next to
my head.

I don’t cry
when he starts
calling me all the
names that come
to his mind,
I deserve them.
I have slept with
his best friend
out of revenge.
I was mad and
we had fought,
and he had called me
names — 
like right now.
And I thought we were
over, but I also
wanted him to feel bad
like I had always felt
with him.

But no excuse was valid,
and he let me know
I was a whore.
And I should beg him,
he kept saying.
So I start crying
because he is right.
Because I am a whore, and
I am worth so little
I should thank him
for wanting me back.
For wanting me at all.
He tells me he
knows all about me,
and he assures me
nobody else would love
the shit that I am.

He’s sure his
friend only fucked me
because he had told
everyone how easy and
desperate I am.
And I know he is right.

Because I am
a wreck,
but even when
he knows
he was kind enough
to love me.
And I apologize until I
feel I’m passing out.
And he reminds me
the things I
have to do for
him to forgive me.

And I do. All of them.”