One night, one
silly little night.
I was a bird in flight:
two glasses of Prosecco
two Coronas and
three Jack Daniels and Cokes down,
always the bridesmaid,
him, the clown.
The dancefloor was spinning,
with pinched feet in rented shoes and
the dizziness of hearing The Pixies
for the first time in years.
With a headful of beers
someone who knew all the lyrics to Debaser,
I was gone. He led me out,
out behind the function suite,
and I travelled to the moon.
It was a good story for the bride and groom -
romance on their night.
We dined as two couples,
showed each other our holiday photos,
had picnics on summer days.
I loved his eyelashes.
He said he loved my dimples when I smiled.
Four sweet months of this,
a rented flat and commonlaw bliss.
no longer love but something else instead.
He accused me of having somebody else in our bed.
Every text beep scrutinised,
even if only from my mum.
Every day at work, he's there,
coming too early to take me home.
Paranoia, arguments, sleeping in the spare room.
He is a darkness, a walking gloom.
He struck me hard in the face first,
and told me to say I fell.
I hear the distant sound of an alarm bell.
This is it:
my life now,
living in fear,
giving anything to be back where I was last year.
And now this:
my growing shame.
I can't help my mind drifting to a favourite name.
A boy, they said, but no-one knows,
and I dread the day when I start to show.
If I tell him, he won't leave.
If I don't tell him, then what?
A little tiny human lives, where a punch of his once landed.
I wonder how far I can get before he notices I've gone,
before he knows what fate has handed.