poem fourteen: antithesis

it wasn’t your finest
set of hours, like Cathy
in from the moors, pent
up & desperate, wild
with fever in your chest

& thinking if you fuck
him once more it will soothe
the ache. but he knows you
too well, he knows the pain
to you is like a drug & if

your skin touches his skin
you’d pretend nothing happens
you’d behave as if his eyes
have not changed & you love him
as much now as you ever did.

*

Catching up! I’ve been away. Day fourteen on day seventeen, what fresh hell is this …

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