when he sneaks into my home through Spotify,

demanding I make him a sandwich.

But the webcam he hacked on my computer

spies a lack of bread in my kitchen,

especially for misogynist 

men who get fucking high 

off my appearance. 

He performs at the Nobel Peace Prize,

the lyrics dominating a war 

against women that stand no chance against 

their ex-boyfriends and stalkers.

He belts, my life is brilliant,

in a courtroom, after the defence 

cross-examines the lady, yes, but you smiled at him on the subway.

You asked for it! Didn’t you?

My friends failed to Google the lyrics 

before their big day. I found him hiding

in the stereo ready to spike 

the bride’s champagne. He was angry 

she was with another man. I panicked 

when he whispered, my love is pure

as he crept to the dance floor.

I warned the newlywed to watch her drink 

at all times. I was not his victim this time. 

But now I hide from him under my bed,

holding a knife as platinum as his album 

wondering if he could show

rather than tell when he threatens, 

I’ve got a plan 

so I can map out an escape

route that will keep me alive.



Bianca Grace is a poet living in Australia. Her work has appeared in Anti-Heroin Chic, Selcouth Station, Ample Remains and is forthcoming in Capsule Stories. She tweets from @Biancagrace031