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