Stains

I’ve been coming home to an empty house
sipping wine with the ghosts of you  
staring into the bathroom mirror
as though, somehow, I’ll see your eyes
looking back at me  
and for a moment  
I miss you  
 
And then I pass that door
on my way to bed
and remember  
again  
how and why you went away  
 
I remember the blood on the basement walls
that I scrubbed for hours  
until my lungs burned with bleach
and my eyes blurred with exhaustion  
my own hands a raw and bloodied mess
 
I remember the muffled screams of your lover
as I made her watch, it wasn’t hard  
when you’d already handcuffed her to the bed  
doing things to her that I’d once believed  
were special and just for me  
 
Your clothes still haunt me from the wardrobe
even in your absence I don’t have the courage  
to remove them  
the authorities still think  
I’m a grieving wife, hysterical at the movement
of your memory  
though the only reason I keep them  
is to wear them while I pleasure myself  
during my dark nostalgic moments  
 
‘Cause I know they’ll never find your body  
or the body of the last woman you fucked  
in the house my inheritance paid for  
 
You were always so easy to seduce  
money, a martini and a black lacy bra  
I should have known you’d be bad for me  
when you embodied a bad cliché
killing you was far too easy  
when you dreamed in  
your gin addled delusions  
that life was a whorehouse and women  
were toys for your temporary entertainment
for years I was almost grateful  
that I got to be your favourite  
 
So I’ve been coming home  
and sipping wine with the best ghosts of you  
secretly watching the sex tapes you made  
with all your pretty little whores  
and if I have one regret  
it’s that I didn’t keep your cock  
 
© Indie Adams 2012