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.