Blue Dungarees

He stripped off her blue dungarees,
Pushed her up against the nearest wall.
This wasn’t what we agreed, she said,
But he shut her up with a smack, a fall.
He kissed; he licked and gasped for air,
Then after 97 creaks of the bed, he left.
Door locked, light out, pain in her chest
Wet hair.

Scratching at the chamber walls
Toothache and sore neck, red lips.
Tapping on the big brown door,
Rationing her water in the smallest sips.
The raven on her window sill seemed to scream,
As if he was the prisoner and not she,
The bird relentlessly watched her dream.
She wished she could fly away and just be.

Her lips were cracked and so dry
There was no more water in the well
For this poor, tired girl to sob, to cry.
Not even the salty sea could feed
The embryo hanging by a thin string.
The waves had crashed and the
Tide had gone in; this girl, this thing
Had no mummy, no sister, no skin.

Just a next of kin.

When you breathed you could smell petrol-
Light a fire, now blow on the flame.
She can’t, she won’t,
She has no vehicle to escape,
No means of running away.
He has her forever; his flower, his
Precious jewel, mine and mine only.
Sick.
She wanted to smell flowers, not
His strong breath tainted with whisky.
She wanted his wandering eyes to focus on her,
To stop scanning, and stop getting frisky.
When it was quiet, you could hear her
disappointment, dislike, sometimes devotion.
She learnt the word after some time: entrapment.
And she is no longer new to the emotion.

She would only shower once a week,
With the water running she could finally
Sing. She’d shout and scream and cry aloud,
Knowing she was too lost to be heard or found.
But then her voice melted into a real sound,
And she would smile and tempt and tease,
Until he returned for another hit, another squeeze.
I still remember those blue dungarees.