By Jules Rogers
Words weaved over the years, lugged around in a heavy suitcase, they stopped spewing out when death stepped in. Words kept repeating on me like the taste of smokey bacon crisps. They’d creep up on me unannounced, like a bony clawed hand on my shoulder in a cold shower. Fingernails daggering into my flesh piercing the skin, leaving fine red plough lines that faded in spring. Words tried to get under my skin.
In my head little fragments of phrases like shrapnel lodged and could never be moved. Phrases that confirmed the lie I tried hard not to believe, deceive the naivety of a child trusting in the fairytale of love. She didn’t come today she was doing the housework. The blue of Vick jars and green jelly. I asked for a black dress the day of my release, you gave me a navy blue one instead, they don’t make black dresses for three year old girls. Clare was such a nice little girl, more perfect than me, more normal, you preferred her not me.
He left because of my voice. Just as well that I’m pretty no one would want me if not. He ran naked through the house when I started my menses, parading his manhood proudly for me. I wasn’t interested, not then, give it a year or two, then fuck like rabbits. Queues formed around the corners of my vanity. All free today, with every word given away, I’d get a whip in return. The weals on my back exposed for all to see, I ironed them on a cold setting.
I remembered the rabbit decapitated and gutted lying on the grass, and the puppy with blood spewing from its mouth while I stood frozen. I heard your wailing would you wail for me. When the Nazi makes you choose a child or save one drowning at sea, would it be me.
Jealousy boiling in a pan with my heart, overcooked and toughened, served with a greasy gravy, seasoned with shards of words floating on the top.