Junket milk

Curdle, the cuddle that girdles,

until it thickens and sours,

and what felt safe

and lured me in

makes me gag, spit,

be sick.

Did no-one know

this intensity burns,

like the stare

in his eye:

an intention, revelation, destruction?

Did no-one dare

to say, “and cut.” ,

or did they speak

and he misunderstood?

For he cut

deeper through me,

into my soul,

the wound that wound

around me,

holding me tight,

binding but never

healing,

stemming but never

growing,

until the cessation of my blood-beating,

trapped-wing beating, once hopeful heart

stunted my growth.

Stunted my life,

designed to perform,

yet this stunt I cannot perform,

performed upon by him

as I have been.

A stage on the way

for him.

A stage for me I cannot leave.

That wound,

it winds serpentine still.

Binds me up,

believing I am loved as broken-hearted,

shores me up

’til I am unsure.

Shores me up

until my tide

repressed

ebbs but flows no more,

tied to the stake

he claimed in my life.

Believing I am loved,

I accept the binding,

thinking it healing,

but no.

I am bound, gagged, curdled

spilt as junket milk

eliciting no tears

so they may smile before my silence.