I get into trouble when I do quiet things,
things that demand only a small portion of my mind,
leaving room for the demons to crawl out from under the bed.
Sunday night, I had reorganized
the mess in the cabinet where I keep detergent
so I could find what I want,
then I started doing laundry.
I was just doing laundry.
First, I thought about Monday. The office.
Sad. Hate to leave my dogs at home all day.
Then how hot it is this time of year,
then you. Of course.
The first demon had entered and taken over.
You.
You with your professions of love,
your interest in me, sharing with me
your probing questions that make me think
you more than heard me
You understood me
You, with your hit and run ending.
You wrote that goodbye note. It sounded as if
you were writing to a child, an unimportant little child.
You wrote me out. Class dismissed, as if I had any class.
Then came the second and far greater demon.
Me.
I am the tramp who climbed your stairs
I didn't leave
I followed you into the bedroom
I threw myself into the blaze and bathed in it
I hid myself from you when you were angry
I failed to demand what I deserved
I failed to offer what you needed.
I am the slut who sought you out again!
I engaged with you. In full awareness of your circumstances,
I followed you into the bedroom again.
I saw. After all this time, I finally saw.
I looked down at the old tee shirt in my hand,
my work shirt, flecked with paint and spotted with coffee,
smeared with garden soil and smelling of sweat,
a blood stain on the sleeve where the rose bush cut me,
threadbare under the arms, a hole near the hem,
so faded that you can’t see the color it was in the beginning,
so filthy that I was going to have to put it in the washer alone.
I didn’t want any of my good clothes to be discolored by it.
I would never wear this shirt in public, only when I knew that
I was going to get dirty.
At some point, I ought to throw it away. I’ll have to, I thought.
I saw. I finally saw why.
Too nasty to serve any other purpose,
too used up, too bad.
Dirty.
A whore, not a madonna.
A woman so used that she can’t separate lust from love.
So polluted she doesn't even see the difference!
There is no place for the likes of me in your decent life,
the life of a man clean enough to feel guilt!
Of course you had to end it!
Of course you had to leave!
You had to!
I'm not good enough for you.
I saw! I saw!
I wiped my eyes on the shirt, then dropped it in the washer.
I have decided not to throw it away.
It has served me well.
It fits perfectly.
Adding your comment:
