Things I Can’t Say Out Loud

Things I Can’t Say Out Loud

I look at you,

sitting there,

watching the time.

It’s like you want to get out.

Is she waiting?

I ask,

do you want a coffee?

Miles away you look —

no answer.

I ask again.

You say,

I am going out.

Don’t wait up.

Fuck you,

I want to say,

but I can’t say that out loud.

It would forever

be met with a fist

or a kick.

You’re so wicked,

so cruel to me.

I pretend we’re cool

for the children’s sake.

I go to bed,

cry all night.

This just isn’t right.

Morning.

Seven a.m.

In you come,

still drunk.

Into bed.

I get up.

You smell of her perfume.

She deliberately leaves

lipstick traces

on your white shirt.

I want to say,

I know where you’ve been.

I can’t say it out loud.

I know

what hospital food tastes like.

That night,

you stay home.

Come to bed,

you say,

I feel like I want to vomit.

You wait,

your voice gets angry.

I do the deed.

So much I want to say

that I can’t say out loud.

You would kill me.

Next day,

I itch down below,

so badly.

She is a prostitute

and friend.

She obliges to no end.

Doctor gives me cream,

tablets,

and a talking to.

Leave him,

it’s simple,

he says.

He would kill me,

I think,

but can’t tell the doctor

this out loud.

So I itch,

feel ill,

and say nothing.

You have sex with me,

punch,

hit,

and destroy me.

You’re a bastard,

I shout in my head,

knowing full well

I can’t say it out loud.

You would end me.

One day I will leave —

but maybe not just yet.

I have to think of my children.

A few more punches

I can take.

My loving you,

a mistake.

My heart breaks.

I hate-love you,

deep within.

You go out,

close the door,

and it all repeats again.

Fuck you,

I shout inside my head

and heart.

You’ve torn my life apart.

My thoughts are locked in again.

You’re home,

and I can’t say anything

out loud

to you.

My children need a mum.

So,

fuck you —

my secret word,

locked deep

into the cesspit

that runs

through my head

to my heart.