“You’ll never get in. You just can’t. You don’t understand.”,
she says. in this, i can’t help but hear that constant chorus.
she sobs softly in a room i can’t open; door locked.
she can’t help herself. she always cries in the morning.
i can’t believe she’s the same person as in the evening before;
in fishnets and spike heels, vying for attention, can’t take no,
no, won’t take no as an answer. in fact, i can’t take no
so well myself. in a growing rage, i can’t hold back.
can’t stand this helplessness in my own home.
i try to get in with a slam and a kick but can’t.
she sounds out louder in fear, can’t help herself.
in-side, i burn angrily at the sound. i can’t stand it;
can’t shake it, like a potlid in the throes of boil.
it’s strange. in my mind, i can’t remember how it
started. in memories, we can’t keep our hands to
ourselves, intwined at the hip and mouth, can’t stop
or don’t want to. in reality, i guess we still can’t,
though i can’t say it’s in the same ways. well,
i get in. she can’t hold back her sullen tears.
she can’t hide the hints in last night’s stockings,
torn into large holes. i can’t help but growl and
she can’t help but weep heavily in that old, familiar
way. and so now, we can’t stop it. it’s in motion.
the ritual complete. can’t help that, in each other,
we summon the worst.