The Smell On His Sweatshirt

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.

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