raining in my heart

she’ll want to tell you this flinch is just the ghost of him
haunting. For the most part she has learnt to chase it away.
She’s listening to the sound of her spine snap like twigs
on a loop. It’s not you, it’s the small things like light falling
through the window that way, the sound of your shoe
on the lino, the soap you bought — you couldn’t have known.
Tonight she’ll sleep paralysed again and you can do nothing.
She’ll know she’s safe when she wakes. Some days there’s
barely any pain at all. Until then, you both hold your breath.

Zelda Chappel