By Ambica Gossain
Love knocks.
Soft,
like it cares.
I do not answer.
Fear,
wraps its hand,
around the knob.
I let it.
You don’t need to open the door,
for punishment,
to find you.
It slips in,
through the peephole.
The crack left.
So the door doesn’t scar,
the floor.
Love knocks.
Again.
Again.
I am,
already drowning.
Not in pleasure,
in guilt.
Thick.
Old.
Mine.
It presses me,
against the wall.
Not a kiss.
But a weight.
A whisper.
You will never be more.