Games

They warned 'It's a gloomy Sunday'  
and I  
did not bite.  
At Sunday Roast I didn't listen
and I  
did not fight.
Even when the darkness loomed in the sky
and the rain pelted on the window
I
did not listen
but at night
when he's gone,
and these silly little games have
gone to bed,
the curl of fear stays widened, awake,
locked inside my chest.
It's a demon
like I said
I
did not listen
yet tonight it rings and brings its heartless things
to my bed side and in my drink.
It's the spit of venom on his tongue
attached to silly, easy games
I said
I did not want to play.
Maybe slumber will take  
those old bruises
and put them in a little box
and lock them until my heart's forgot
the rules  
to the game
I promise
I did not wish to play.