You never charged me for your time
when I was suicidal
but came to my studio apartment
sometimes after midnight.
There, away from your office
where you were forever in a hurry
with prescriptions and the next patient
you squashed me
underneath your alcoholic belly
with what I thought was love.
You pretended to be a mind-reader
and talked to me about my dead father
as if you could be a substitute for him.
I opened my thighs to you
and let all of Purgatory in;
you said you liked religion in stirrups.
I wasn’t protected
and couldn’t stay Catholic
as fur goes where it’s hunted.
You ended our affair
and changed my diagnosis
to a delusional disorder
so your peers wouldn’t set off
bombs of disapproval and blame.
Now I go to chapel every day
because it’s the only place I can carry
my scarecrow silence.
I’m spooky as an old woman
looking through a window
with a face that doesn’t
have teeth anymore.