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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