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Helen Kitson

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Blame

You let me hit you.
I just bitched -
stormed off in the middle of rows,
wouldn’t wait to be proved wrong;
sat moodily on train platforms,
waiting for you.
You ask forgiveness of me -
I dole it out, I’m generous.

I can’t explain myself,
the times I’ve listened at doors,
trying to decipher your phone calls
while I rip up your diaries,
your words, your life
before we met.

I blame you for the blood on my nightdress,
the bad milk in our fridge,
for people I’ve never met.
You hang up the washing,
I comb my washed hair,
style it in a new way.
It still works, doesn’t it?
We’ve still got it,
haven’t we?

You scrape hardened vegetables
from our plates.
You never lose your temper.
We could go out tonight,
couldn’t we?
It could be my treat, couldn’t it?
I could wear my new dress, couldn’t I?
Couldn’t I?

 

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