Each time you walk
Out the door
I see my mama’s back.
Each time you get ready
for a date,
I see you getting ready
To forget me.
Mama.
You who were supposed
To protect me.
Supposed to know
What he’d do.
What he did.
But you’re not my mother.
Today you get ready
To live the agreement
We negotiated,
The agreement
We consented to.
But even with all our principles
Your perfect strokes
Of eyeliner
As you prepare to depart
Are like a sharpie
Through my name,
My body, my history.
They say I’m a write off,
A shed commitment.
Penciled in
At best.
You put on that dapper jacket
You never wear
At home—evidence
That there’s something special
About this time.
About this one.
Something good, which means
Something dangerous.
Or so the heat
Demanding my attention, rising
From my gut insists.
You see, you might like them.
Which would be
Like a coffin nail.
My inner child cries:
Bad things happen
When you leave
Me. I say this
To my mother in your body.
Bad things.
We have a commitment,
A history
Of truthfulness—
Yet my hurt still
Deems it a lie.
A sentencing without
Due process.
Past Evidence, exhibit A:
For which you had
A solid alibi.
But my defense, well—
Commitment is
Snake oil.
And yet—
You come home.
And you
Love me no less.
Teaching that child
That none of it
Was true.
That trust is possible.
