On her own

​On her own at last.
He had slammed the door so hard that a hinge came loose.
Like he had slammed her mother’s photo to the ground.
Like he had slammed his hand against her face.
 
On her own, again.
She shuddered in the wake of his violent departure.
She shivered in her bloodied T-shirt.
She shrank in anticipation of his return.
 
On her own, as usual.
She swept up the broken frame and threw away the jagged fragments.
She gingerly pressed a pack of frozen peas to her throbbing cheekbone.
She sadly sipped the viscous dregs of his deserted beer.
 
On her own, unexpectedly,
She abandoned the last vestiges of faith in his love.
She resolved to finally rescue herself.
She mined the depleted ore of her own courage.
 
On her own, purposefully, 
She plucked a creased and greasy flyer from under the mattress.
She rescued her mother’s abused photo from the bin.
She harvested a meager cash crop from his jacket pockets.
 
On her own, patiently,
She found a screwdriver in a kitchen drawer.
She secured the displaced hinge and stroked the old wooden door.
She quietly shut it behind her.
 
She was unsure of what she was doing.
She was unsure of where she was going.
But she was sure that she would be better off 
On her own.
 
 
 
20 Feb 2018

**Published  in The Avenue, Issue VII: Freedom, January 2022**