I remember his voice, pitched-low,
a smooth glass of Scotch, but hard to swallow this time.
Tension unfurled in my stomach, foreboding locked my legs.
My hands quivered, I shoved them away,
eyes down, my firm voice, met with anger,
outraged at this personal slight.
We walked by, granting space for his rage,
his ego too big to share the street, to let us walk by unbothered.
Rejection hung in the air, weighed down by our fear.
The sounds of his steps, his speech coming faster more aggressive,
mimicking his steps.
My head spun, the air came too quick, panic pounded at the door
to my head, pressing its way in.
Our feet began to slap the ground, **** these sandals,
a call to him, an encouragement, us defenseless in the emptied street.
The elevator felt unsafe, plain and empty walls.
My window was securely fastened despite the heat,
door double bolted, shaking on the bed,
free from adrenaline and moved by fear.
The room was too empty, too vulnerable,
comfort only from my feeble connection to my home.
Sweaty, tired hands of mine clutched it to me,
falling asleep with the safety of his voice,
swirling around me, shoving off the unwanted
traces of chilling words and tear-stained makeup.
