You look like a fucking slut, he said,
Shifting, scowling, his arms tightly spread.

There was a mismatch in him: the one
Who was kind and sweet and the one

Who wasn't, who breathed like a sudden
Empty room. And then the light flooded

Back. If she cried then, he didn't mind it.
He would apologise, touch her and fit

Back into the other mans bones, the smiling
One, like it was all over and it was. Reconciling

Was a trick she'd never had to learn before.
In her father's house complaints were stored

In the back of smiles, a constant aftertaste of pain.
Even here she remembers: each I'm sorry, each never again.