Alma notices
the minutest
degree of chill
from him. He
may make love
and he may not,
but she can sense
if he’s been else
where in times
between. She can
smell another girl.
That time he said
all those words,
brought flowers,
perfume and chocs
and such, but she
knew they were
for some other or
seemed as much.
She looks at him
sitting there, that
glint in his eyes,
that devil may care
stare, that smile,
but all the while,
there’s some other
girl’s assets he’s
musing, some other
he’s had or soon will
do, he’s there, but
he’s not with you,
she says inside,
keeping it all in,
holding back tears,
stomach in knots,
heartbeat racing,
wanting him, but
not, trying to act
cool, but all too hot.
She allows him to
make love, feels
nothing, permits
his kisses, touches;
wonders who he
pretends it is he’s
making love to,
which one he’s
kissing in his head.
He’s gone now,
she’s undressed
and scrubs him
off as much as
water, soap and
brush allows. She
lies in the bath,
water like menstrual
flood, slit wrists,
cool dampness,
soaked in blood.