Three weeks had gone by 
by the time I was forced to click
my little red heels together. 

I was swept off my feet by a
Blue Collar Quilty of sorts. 
He rolled me White Owls.

He kissed
my fingers
one by one.

He dropped the cherry of
his cigarette on my wrist
and spent the rest
of the night apologizing
between my legs. 

My mother says he is malignant.
She has the records to prove it. 
Two years probabtion. 8 months in rehab.
3 arrest records. An EPO. 
A friend in DV court
that remembers her name.
Her face. Her tears. 
The broken glass door and
the smell of burnt popcorn on tinfoil. 

I am thrown to the wolves. Nobody to tell. 
Every mouth filled with judgment.
I have nothing substantial to say. 
I will burn in this labyrinth.
If there is a justice higher
than that of man, I will be
judged by Him.