Bradlee Thomas

(trigger warning: assault, blood)

 

I love to lie in puddles of red

and pretend it’s my final day.

 

I sprawl out the contents of the purse

I know that he will do the same to.

 

I practice how to fall down gracefully

after he grabs me from the back by its strap

resting on my shoulder

with my right hand held on.

 

I imagine how it will feel

to fade out of consciousness

while he looks at me

and speaks to me

like the man he thinks I am

but also thinks I’ll never be.

 

I play footstep sounds on a Bluetooth speaker,

scrub the video to the last 15 seconds,

put city soundscapes in the cue.

 

I remember what it feels like to be caught.