He is a boring man,
wears the same 3 shirts
In a cycle,
Eats the same curried
Mackerel,
From a can each day.

Was it a bad past experience,
Is this PTSD?
I’ve never known and I guess
I never will,
That’s all it is to me.

For our thirty three years
Of marriage,
I have never been able to
Get a peak,
Or even a glimpse into the
darkness,
His Christmas Eve outings

But at 10 o clock sharp,
On the bitter 24th,
Noel puts on a red suit
And heads out the door.

I should question what,
He’s been getting up to,
But I fear for the answer,

He’s coming home, and
As I pray, the smell of
Bleach and dead meat
Sleigh-ride my way.

He scares me; his eyes dead,
Drinking whisky, and Looking straight ahead at a black and
White picture of my niece,
Pounding into my flesh before
Taking another swig...

I wake to the morning sun beams
seeping through the curtains,
the white crumpled sheets
contrasting with our cocoa tans.

You’re awake too, the sweet constellations of freckles
that surround your rosy skin
Stretch wide as you smile at me,
that smile.

We are a tangle of legs and arms,
Completing each other.
I feel you whisper in my ear
making me blush,
Kissing my neck so I hold you
tighter, closing my eyes
with pleasure.

As the pillows that are your lips
Press into my warm skin,
I can’t help but wander my mind,
down to your hands running down my chest and my thighs and my hips.

My chest; and my thighs; and my hips.

So I understand that
It’s good to release,
to flush away the bad ****,
the toxins and the chemicals.
But every now and then
I like to tease it, trace the outline of the rose until it’s spread it’s petals, then stop.
Let it die down, slowly, gently.
It’s a way of controlling the
Little things, the right gaps to fill.
Manipulating those who expect
the usual.