I was a wee baby when I wrote this one, probably 14. Part of my first collection, Things Of My Youth. Published in Frenetic Poetry Magazine, Issue I. https://heyzine.com/flip-book/0c0e2aa654.html
The Smell on His Sweatshirt I often imagine You Crumpled To your knees, Your eyes Pierced By the pain In mine. A most vile zap To your heart, I wish it could break for me. I’d like to see your guilt – You say you’re so Crippled By it. I want it Tattooed on your face Like her hickeys On your neck. You had it easy; Some months of texting sorry During commercial breaks of sitcoms In bed. You’d fall asleep, Laughter still lingered on your lips, Big-breasted cartoon women In your dreams. I gave up my hurt When a quote on Facebook said All the best people know To forgive. And yet you’ve Made a monster of me. Made smiling a skill I’ve had to master, Made it forced enough There’s come measure to The angular curve Of my lips. Made yourself the reason I’ll check My husband’s texts While he’s In the shower. His call log, His jean pocket, The smell On his sweatshirt. You, Who claim To love me Most, Can’t reckon How to love At all.