by Angeline Farrow
I left my anger for you to come home to;
frustration folded between clothes
thrown across our bed.
I folded hateful words into socks
and left you some insults
tucked between the pleats of a skirt.
I wanted you to see how I felt
and find your apology buttoned to a shirt.
I locked up our house
and practiced a speech in my head;
rehearsed how sorry you would be.
I polished the words with my tongue
and shaped them with my teeth
so that they would flawlessly explain
just how wrong you had been.
But hours later
as you kissed me and set me a place at our table
the words felt foolish in my throat
and tasted like crayon against my tongue.
‘I’m sorry about the mess in the bedroom’
I touched your arm
and waited for you.
Angeline Farrow has been writing since she can remember and, quite simply, wouldn’t know what to do with her hands if she didn’t.