TAR

I wanted to stop writing about him--

everything bleeds red,

everything bleeds him.

I changed the color

of the ink,

black, green, orange

and blue.

But he never leaves me

like the brown color embedded into

my skin that makes me a threat,

like the black saturating

the strands of my hair,

he is everywhere.

​

I see him in the face

of every man that’s hit

on me at work.

I see him in the beard

that grows from

every chin.

I see him in every full

lip that curls up into a smile.

I see him in every brown

eyes that looks bashfully

on at the world,

that keeps it young

and full of optimism.

​

He plagues me in the worst way--

he bleeds into my poetry.

Everything has become

about the day he

placed malicious

intent in every thrust

into me.

​

When people ask why

I dare cut my hair,

why I would sever

the soft and coily

curls from my head,

all I can think about is

maybe I can

rid myself of him

that maybe this would set me free.

I tell them instead,

because I wanted too.

They don’t ask me twice.

​

I don’t look at the

photograph of me holding

my degree without

remembering all the nights

I laid awake at night,

wishing I could scrub

the ghost of his fingertips

from my skin,

praying I could close my eyes

and forgot the way

his weight crushed

my chest.

​

I told myself

he doesn’t deserve that power,

doesn’t deserve the space

he takes up on the page,

doesn’t deserve the ink

I use to write about him.