Helen Vivienne Fletcher
I didn’t invite you in.
You slipped in through a door
I was sure I had locked.
You covered the windows,
disconnected the phone,
put away all the mirrors.
My arm was bleeding.
You took my chin
between your thumb and finger
to turn my face to yours.
Look at me instead, you said
I would tell you if there
was something to worry about.
You filled my days with busy work
and tempted my attention away with a smile.
My leg began to shake.
You pressed your hand to my knee.
You could get up if you wanted to.
You don’t want to.
You grew lazy in your occupation of my time.
You allowed me longer to squirm
in the discomfort of my own being.
But you always came back.
You were always there
when I really needed you.
One day, you were gone.
You left me lying on the floor
taking my ability to breathe with you,
I did not recognise my own face.
I railed at you. Alternately cursing you
for the time you had taken from me,
then begging you to come back
and cover the mirror once more.
I stayed on the floor
waiting for you to pick me up.
You had pulled the blinds back
from the window as you left.
Daylight crept its way across my hand.