He wears his feminism and kindness and quietness well

as a garment to pull on when he's cold and lonely
and one to cast off when he's hot and *****.

He is not the quiet, feminist, nice boy.
Not behind closed doors.

At Primrose Hill, I wonder what happened behind that door to push Plath a few streets over and her head into an open oven.

I wonder how often she smiled with lipstick painted lips
when people complimented her husband's poetic genius.

How often did she want to scream,
He's an abuser, not a poet.

He was a romantic poet with a marker in Westminster Abbey.
He was the flame in the oven and the smoke in her lungs.

How many people have stood here and revered his stone?
I made sure to step on it.

I am tired of being a protector for the alleged nice boys.
Of letting him be shrouded in pity and good intentions when it's convenient.

But I am not in the business of ruining reputations.
I am in the business of watching him ruin mine.

I let him paint me into the ***** who broke his heart.
I let him speak his coward's laments where he thought they'd never find me.

What goes around comes around and they snaked back to me
in a telephone of whispers through lips of those more loving than he will ever be.

I let his smoke fill my lungs, cough once, smile and say
What a nice boy.

I do not say what happened behind closed doors.
I do not scream Look at how he abused her and her and her

I do not set him all ablaze.