by Christos Polydorou

You pushed
me. You pushed
me, so hard. Now

it is my time, to
complain. Silent
all these years,

what remains,
but smudges
on window panes

dust bunnies
on the dust ruffle?
You pushed

me, on a bed. You
had my consent,
but still. But still.

But still. You pushed
me. You silenced me,
by emasculating me,

by humiliating… You
never said you loved me,
because you couldn’t say it,

even though you
quite easily dance
in circles. You

deprived me of love,
so I, in turn, found my self
depriving myself of love,

like you taught me
to deprive myself of love
when I was a child.

I don’t blame you,
because this happens to everyone,
and we are someone,

to someone, and not nothing,
even if we nothing, to someone,
but I am shocked at myself

to be forty years old now
and to look upon my life
with a different eye, not

one in which I was the victim,
but one in which I was on the other
side of the world away from the predator

and still he found me, in the sense
that I was behaving in a way to please
that predator, as if the purpose and the

function of my body and soul were to be
to be food for a predator! Outrageous!
I looked myself in the mirror last year,

and I threw the mirror out the window,
and got a new mirror. And then I saw
what I had been doing, in my love life,

in my personal life, in my career,
which was I had such good intentions,
but always I would sabotage myself.

To deprive myself of joy,
any joy,
in any aspect of my life.

I had been a fool.
But I was young.
I was such an arrogant young man.