guilty hands on a bedhead

She doesn’t know the things I know
and I wonder if his hands felt the same on her skin
when he slid callouses up her skirt
and whispered empty nothings
about love and trust against her frigid neck
before he slipped himself inside

I don’t imagine they kissed
like the reruns of when he tried to lick
the insides of my mouth clean
with his dirt

He never had the right words
and I never had any words at all
so I let silence fill the void between us
an ocean of unspokens we couldn’t bridge

We created worlds of muted violence
his fingers bruised with my blood
as my body wrapped itself
around the purple stains of his lust
and pretended it was any other
four letter world  

She lit a smile on his face
in the ways I couldn’t  
while he hid his hands in erect pockets
and kissed my neck in premeditation

Time slipped between us
my hands weren’t made to nurse
the godless way he loved me
as she grew the children I miscarried

We never know better
until we know better

Sixteen and empty
unborn blood on my hands
she doesn’t know the things I know
or how I came to know them

© Indie Adams 2016