TFLN POEM - Cockblocking Children, Grief

Hey.

Here's the www.textsfromlastnight.com poem of the week.

Here's more info on why I started this project. Starting today, I'll tag the poems in this series as well.

I'm writing these poems because it's a challenge to write weekly poetry for me. And, they really surprise me, how the narrator of the piece spins and justifies themselves. If they shock me, I suppose that's a good sign.

So, here's the text, and the poem:

(936):

You are the only person I know who has a fierce hatred for a five year old. Not even five year olds in general, yours is very specific

It’s midnight. The duplex is

Sober with memory, reflecting.

I lock the child’s door. I put a wooden chair

Tight against the lock.

I’ve been dating Tim for a year.

I know the rituals.

And, with the hellion secured,

I scurry, my clothes shriek from my skin before I pounce upon the bedroom.

Tim snorts himself awake.

He knows. He knows what I covet in this flitter of desire.

Oh, It’s Good, he murmurs, as we press, but I cup his mouth.

Like he’s a hostage. We have to be quiet. There’s no time.

And I’m right. I’m always cursed with being precise.

Knock at the door.

Simon can smell erections,

I swear to fucking christ.

He’s hungry or he wants a story or he’s scared

Or he wants to talk about Mothra.

Tim, still wearing pajamas, tends him, strokes his auburn hair,

He’s so tender. It makes me furious.

He tucks Simon into bed, cradles me,

And, though exhausted, licks me until the anger fades

And he passes out.

And I’m a live wire. Glowing in the dark. Simon hasn't let Tim come in months.

Not since she died.

And I was a secret. I was patient and I knew the cancer

Couldn’t hold her

Couldn’t keep us apart.