There is no swirl left in me,
no jiggle of the vest and lust
in me, no giggle no tickle
no trust in me, no girl
no girl no more.
The Social Worker
..comes snuffling up steps trailing
a scent of malice, a trace of despair
wafting out from beneath my door
seeping through cracks in my story
she sniffs corners of my past, licks
salt from old wounds,
blood
that taunted and slapped
small cheeks into redness,
jumping out from dark
corners hard fists high
the battle long over,
only the scent remains.
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