Sitting there in your sleek, black suit
you appear so serious, eyes transfixed
on the garbage pouring from my lips,
venomous secrets that had been lying dormant.
I give a sideways glance,
then scrutinize your mystic gaze,
as blue tears begin to well.
My cheeks burn as I taste
bitter salt and flush:
embarrassment,
humiliation
shame.
The cat is out of the bag; a river
beset with blackened ravines and hostile
truths come spilling, surging,
like a boisterous hurricane,
squashing malevolent self-loathing
and pitiful cries in silent anguish.
Words magically become phrases,
and develop into acrid accusations.
I feel somehow buoyant,
shedding at least ten pounds
of mental deadwood
and sewage. Turning to confront
your unwavering look,
I am suddenly floating
in a silky, tranquil sea:
is that vibrant concern?
Do you sincerely care?
Are you even listening?
I’m muttering gibberish again.
Scarlet truths seek an outlet,
stuffing the room with complex
adjectives. Thank God
there is no derisive mirror;
I must appear an unruly mess:
self-conscious,
exhausted,
nervous.
I return to your stare, as a delicate
smile emanates from the ice queen.
You are affected. You comprehend
what was previously covert.
It isn't my imagination playing
lamenting tricks. Brisk fantasies
take flight, fleeing my mind
like rats from a slow, sinking barge.
“He hurt me.
He hurt me.”
I testify without perjury.
“He hurt me.”
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