Aspect of Error

Crying, again.
This time not because the cardboard statues of Osama line the desert
not because that night-time ghost no longer comes to visit
and not because my sadness of Saddam Hussein came
the moment of his capture and again.
 
Not this time.
 
My youth and love have slipped away
in my dreams marked dead on a tree
x’s in black tape kept in place with hunting knives for all to see
 
He gave me black gloves with rhinestone clips
given as a token, a “Please wear…
for me.”
I had to ask
in my sorry state of confidence and confusion,
“Do you want me?
Am I sexy?”
 
Honest came the answer
as always into my eyes
only this time, his weren’t all there
this time, he didn’t want to see the pain he knew it would cause
afraid I might crush him with the weight.
 
She’d called me mum
knowing the slap would sting beyond that of anger
that phrase marking her territory, like dogs piss
her body slinking, slithering, close enough
claiming her spot without a doubt,
as I would have
 
Once upon a time
 
I had a lover.
He would have dropped everything for me.
 
— Michelle PG Richardson (Frieda Babbley)