he still knows how to fuck me over (it’s fun for us)
it’s the reaction, his
face, smiling at me. i stare at it until my eyes go
black.
w e play a different game now
he moves forward, long strides and she tries to catch
up, panting behind him, barely able to smell his cologne but
she pushes faster, gasping, clawing, still on his heels,
that’s part of the game
for her, the chase (the want? the ease?)
he keeps her on the back burner, a burner, burn her
a life vest. he’ll use the last one, she’s left to drown
i will always lose this game
he has me by a hook, caught in my cheek
the metal feels good // we’re attached by a translucent wire,
he yanks me wherever he goes
you can let go anytime. i’ll still have a scar from the line
i think it’ll taste like you
or metal
blood
a reminder
you know and you know and you know
i know now but i am still tripping over
your big fucking feet (they’re everywhere she steps, she
tries to avoid, sidestep, a forever ledge she’s destined
to stumble on)
the chase the run the
prowl! i’ve picked myself to scabs. my hands are raw my lungs hurt and my
heart is worse off.
not many men
call me a queen just to find another to wield the crown
you are no man. you are no man to me.
a queen
you called me.
am i?
then kneel.
Sophie Clarkin is an emerging writer and recent Wheaton College, MA graduate with her BA in Creative Writing & Literature and Film & New Media Studies. She received the Helen Meyers Tate Memorial Prize for Original Verse in May 2023 and her work has appeared in Rushlight, the oldest student-run literary magazine in the country. In her free time, she enjoys reading romance books with a cat in her lap.
Featured image by Nathan McGregor.
