I think a year has passed
since I felt the first flicker of rage.
The spark that forced a home in the tense of my shoulders;
the small of my back; each fragment of my skin that tingles
when it remembers how a mattress can sting.

I watched you tie your laces
and told you I would see you tomorrow,
and I did. The day that followed too.
If I shroud myself in ignorance, I thought,
perhaps I can forget that it was me under your torso that night.

And the shroud kept me safe
for a few days, at least.
But after I saw you for what I didn't know to be the final time,
I reached for a warmth to pull around my shoulders –
and I felt you, for what I knew then, would not be the last.

I tried to teach myself to cope,
but the films I sought resonance from scolded me;
for not being the perfect victim;
for not setting my hatred alight as soon as I saw that look in your eyes;
for telling you I'd missed the embrace I should have resented.

I am angrier than I used to be.
Our friends remain yours, and I moved schools.
There is a cluster of horizons on my thighs, from nights I punish myself for the pain you ignited.
And now it takes just under half a bottle,
to feel with somebody new.