By Kate LaDew
that he’d like it was obvious
it had nothing to do with who or what he was doing it to
a physical response, like breathing
and it was so easy just to like it
be young and drunk and not think beyond that
maneuver the next day to the ready explanation
so wasted, so fun, wasn’t it?
and her, alone, inevitably suffering the looks and whispers like a movie,
everything seemed to be happening to someone else
until she pressed the blue black bruises in places only she could see
because it wouldn’t occur to someone like him he was at all in the wrong,
he was at all being selfish—
but what really erupted the maddening clutches of vengeance
vengeance, like a movie
how adamantly defensive he’d be without saying a word
having no hand in it, owing nothing for how he made her suffer.
he was really such a good guy.
Kate LaDew is a graduate from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro with a BA in Studio Art.