curfew
[03] poetry from the archives
the handle of the front door
is heavy,
my footsteps
like echoes in an empty room.
i hear the alcohol
before the sound
of his voice.
the twist
and turn of the cap.
the slosh,
spill,
and the slap
of glass
onto the coffee table.
my heart
high in my throat,
fear that has no place
to go.
the room is drowning in liquor,
soaked in the air i breathe.
grit my teeth.
brace for the lightning
that hits before a storm.
cowering beneath my own skin,
only to find
there are no shadows to hide in.
glassy eyes
glance at the clock.
shiny golden whisky
on the rocks.
my fear
gripping the cold leather of the sofa —
praying,
wishing
this moment would be over.
you are nothing.
grit my teeth.
trying not to show
the fear that i hide beneath.
repeat after me.
you are nothing.
i am nothing.
grit my teeth.
dig my fingernails
into the skin of my knees.
i saved you
from that country you called home.
look a devil in the eye —
see how quickly you turn to stone.
mind your tone.
you couldn’t have become
this person
on your own.
i saved you
and your mother.
you ungrateful girl —
i’ll send you right back
to where you came from.
grit my teeth.
pray
that he can’t sense
the fear that i hide beneath.
pray
that my eyes don’t tear,
pray
that my cry for help
is a sound he can’t hear.
do i make myself clear?
do you know
that you would be nothing
if i didn’t bring you to this country,
my dear?
you better start being
thankful, and remember
that i brought you here.
don’t look away from me.
you are nothing.
grit my teeth.
dig my fingernails
into my knees.
hope
he can’t sense
the fear that i hide beneath.
don’t you dare look away from me.
you are nothing.
i saved you.
i made you
into something.
grit my teeth.
dig my fingernails
into my knees.
hope
he can’t sense
the fear that i hide beneath.
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