There is this look she gets in her eyes,
it reminds me of being a child,
of her baby fingers and toes
and dark bouncy curls.
How she never asked for this,
for the daggers hiding in jowls,
on the tip of his tongue
and in the hands he held
behind her back.
There is innocence smothered
in life,
in the notion she should get used
to this,
remember how she deserves this,
how she asked for this.
She never asked for this,
not for the 3am screaming
the formula failing,
the incessant knocking at the door
except the devil’s porter
is the knocker – a bloodstained drunk,
his fingerprints already left
inside her house of skin and bone.
There is this look she gets in her eyes,
it reminds me of being a child,
of never asking why,
tracing the pain in her smile
and her unending quiet.
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