She stripped her clothes for him
seventeen years ago.
‘Steamboat Willie’
was playing on the television.
The nakedness
was starker
when she bared her soul
to share
her deepest desires
and darkest secrets.
He admired
her cracks,
licked
her scars,
made love
to her unhealed wounds.
In all these years,
he didn’t give her space
to unfold,
or time
for the wounds to heal.
He
prodded
her vulnerabilities,
struck at her
through the chinks in her armor.
He pinched the wick,
killed the flame,
and disfigured
the spirit
of a tigress.
Spongebob Squarepants
was playing on the television.
In the deepest chambers
of her well-guarded shrine,
she mutes his voice,
stares at him long enough,
and pets
his loud insecurities.
The stench
of his presence
fades.
The claws
push through the skin,
the stripes
reemerge.
In those cold, blank eyes,
a tempest
has risen.
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