shelleyıs love song
harold fleming
Why didnıt you scream? Instead you let his dark
fingers develop rings around your neck,
strings of affection that you knew were not
somebody wanting you; yet, desire
held to you all that week. You were not
someone pulled on by a motherıs apron.
Love me, love me, cried the Hungarian musicbox
you always felt you could turn on or off.
Piano outside your bedroom black reminder.
Bathroom off your hallway, white reminder.
No contest: body for five nights wild
now moved on wobbly footsteps of a child.
Meanwhile, the pressure on your throat increased.
Fingers bit flesh, and nails held on like teeth.
