Courtroom Prethought

Words that once warmed me slice through my faith

The green puddles between my eyelids waltz and scream

We used to waltz

This man I see is not a man

He can’t be

Trusted

He can’t be

Better

The old oaken steps sound as the low deadly beat of an African drum

When words pass his mouth everything stops

Except for me

My mind

I see how he stitches the truth

A tie, a suit, shoes black as molten tar

What does he have that I lack?

 

The words tickle my mouth as I try to calm them

Force them to the back and swallow them whole as he spins his web further

She was mine

But now she can’t be

The pews pulse as he stops for breath and my ears are deafened

My name is spoken abruptly, without warmth or sentiment

My feet become stones and my vision falls apart like wet paper

But my steps take themselves and

It’s my turn