Sometimes, late at night,
you sneak up on me,
when I am lying next to the man
cleaning up the mess you made.

Your memory comes out
of the shadows, the boxes,
the depths I pushed them in.

It still hits me,
hard,
right in the chest —
and all I can think of
is the way you laughed,
your crooked teeth
and the clumsy smile
that hid your sharp tongue
and all the words you battered me with.

I look at him,
hard,
focus until his form blurs —
and you retreat
back into darkness,
where you can’t hurt me anymore.

Mandy Whyte