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Your Old House
by Anastasia SelbyI can still smell that house.
Spilled beer on the stained carpet,
white residue from cocaine
on the counter,
piss from the dog,
bleach and mold.
I drove by today;
the black curtain on the door
was pushed so that no one could see
inside.
Kelly's car was in the driveway,
maybe dead.
She's still with that fat asshole,
that bastard who smelled of yeast
and unwashed crevices
"Wanna fuck?" He'd asked
while sitting on my bed,
Kelly was at work and I thought of her
then I thought of
his limp cock
in my mouth.
He wouldn't have been able to fuck me
if I had said yes,
but I said no.
The electric blood
running in my veins
had cooled
as I flushed the coke
out of my system
with water
and tears.
As I pass the house
I feel an abyss
in my chest
for Kelly.
But she chose to stay.
We all choose
to leave or stay. 12/14/2010 Author's Note: This was written over a year ago.
Posted on 12/14/2010
Copyright © 2025 Anastasia Selby
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Alison McKenzie on 12/15/10 at 06:38 AM Wow. So brutal! The decisive images assault the reader so effectively that the empathy is palpable, laced with the contrast of the apparent apathy the speaker employs to have survived the situation, along with the crushing sadness of knowing someone else chose to remain. And all of that so concisely written. Wow. |
| Posted by Adam Dyson on 12/15/10 at 06:41 AM Literally stunning. Brilliant. |
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