In the months after your departure,
-heart wrenching for some, an exhale
of air after holding it in for too long
for me- I’ve been trying to crack you
open, like a mystery box, to discover the
unknown nature of your charms, compelling.

Were you appealing because you listened
to us? You listened to our low voices in a
society where we were belittled and silenced
into cooperation.
Coerced into leaving our sense of self behind
and following the norm, what is acceptable.
I saw right through you.

You planned this elaborate scheme and I
almost fell for it, I almost fell for your greedy
hands, promising approval, understanding,
a confidant like no other.
Making us think we were too mature for our age,
when we were just silly, innocent girls
craving recognition, just like any other,
wanting to be seen.

You fooled us into believing that you truly saw
us, but I noticed the way you looked at them,
They weren’t being seen in the way they
wanted to.
They were being looked at like just another
piece of meat.
You unclothed them with your filthy eyes.
Don’t you have any shame?

You even had the audacity to appear shocked,
even angry, when us, the ones that realized the wicked,
twisted game you were playing with them, gave you
the cold shoulder. We weren’t the stupid girls you
thought we were.

And all this time, I have blamed myself for not realizing
sooner, and when seeing what was really going on,
not speaking up.
And yes, I regret that, but I won’t give you the pleasure
of blaming anyone other than yourself,
of blaming myself.

After all, I wasn’t the one that looked and
touched them in inappropriate ways,
I wasn’t the one that whispered in their ears
drunk out of his mind,
And I wasn’t the one that earned their trust,
just to groom them.
In that story, I wasn’t the predator,
that titled belonged -and still does-
to you.

Regret,
           One word,
Timeless damage condensed to
           Six letters.
That are scented like cheap, Dollar store, perfume
           Titled “Heavenly”.
The stench that you burned into my nostrils,choking me,
            Suffocating me.
A word whose name taste like poison on my battered tongue,
             Bitterly sweetless,
Just like the ***** pouring like fountains from your fingertips,
             Sugar-laced manipulation.
It’s adorned with purple, the colour of the rich,
            Of royalty,
Yet, worn by a wayward, penniless, and perverted sinner,
             Guiltless, guilty.
It’s a word that purrs, “You’re so mature” as its filthy palms grasp my flesh,
             Robbing me.
Robbing me straight from the cradle I slept so ignorantly,
             So soundly.
Stripping me naked as I was born, yet wasn’t I just yesterday?
              Too young.
Far too young to carry the weight of your skin,
               Your sins,
                                           My regret.

There once was a lady,
(and there actually still is),
who clandestinely preferred
the growth about her garden gate.

The talk in the village square
these days was all about
pruning the living daylights
out of it, until it was a sad
but smooth barren surface.

Apparently visitors had weighed in
and made this some kind of rule.

Nonetheless, she liked how
the twisting leaves and ivy
created a picturesque latticework,
a natural tapestry,
evoking mystery and anticipation
for what lay beneath.

Oh, she trimmed her foliage
here and there,
keeping the overgrowth
from running wild,
but all things considered
she was not about to change.

Her garden was beautiful
just the way it was.

I have a memory that kills me
Like shards of glass sliding through my atrium,
Undetectable until it has ripped an
Irreparable hole in my heart.
His arm is tightened around my neck,
Pressure behind,
Pulling me to him,
My fear thicker than the air I could not breathe.
And then it was over,
Over like the red and sweat of my face
As the oxygen rushed back in.
Therapist says it was not an accident.
In 30 seconds he had tested me.
I was controllable.
Pass or fail
Depends on who you ask.

While waiting for your date, you brought
Out your car key, then wipe it on your shirt
Sleeve and begin to pick your ears with it.
I shook my head.
Done with picking your ears clean with your
Key, you used your handkerchief to clean
The key, then put it back in your pocket.
I kept staring at you.
Our body left to itself is in constant motion;
So you blinked, scratched your chin, and shifted from
One buttock to another: on the chair outside the cafe.
I smiled at you.
Done with the motion, you looked around you
To see if someone was watching you; satisfied
That no one was, you started picking your nose.
I peeked at you from behind my book.
When you realized what you were doing and
Where you were doing it, you quickly removed your
Finger from your nose and straighten your tie.
I shook my head.
After a while, you began observing your
Nails; before you know it you have started
Biting off your nails, one after the other.
I kept staring at you.
As you put the finger that you used to pick
Your nose with into your mouth, realization
Dawned on you. Quickly you removed it.
I smiled at you.
You spite air three times while cleaning
Your tongue inside your mouth. Using your hands
You covered your mouth and nose, and then breathed into them.
I kept peeking at you from behind my book.
Your date arrived and gave you a peck on your check.
I, your observer, sitting two tables across from you,
Took a sip of my tea then stood up and left: thinking cats
Are not the only animals that groom themselves publicly.

Poisonous resentment,
Dripping down my esophagus.
Like the salvia you coaxed down my throat,
Icy cold and bitter.

Purple chrysanthemums blooming,
On my pale, once innocent flesh.
Eyes fogged by deception,
I am unable to escape you.

The seed of regret plants itself in my heart,
Roots of the weeds rip through me,
Polluting the heart, tainting the blood.
Paralysed, you force me down and tear me apart.

Fog clears my vision
just like drug laced honey you fed me
I see your true form in the window of my future
Pathetic old man, I’m not afraid of you.

Your claws saturated with manipulation
Grasp and tear at my flesh
But you can’t trap me here any more
I’m not your hostage

I recommend a light oil and a short comb, keeping sissors to hand to cultivate that King George V shape or, if you are feeling brave, go for the majesty of a full Henry VIII.