Tonight's Poet Corner: His Fingers Were Red And Raw

His Fingers Were Red And Raw
by Belinda Roddie

After I held his hand, he fetched
a bottle of sanitizer. After I kissed
him, he washed his mouth out with
mean, green Listerine. I didn't know

what kind of game he was playing, but
I slapped him hard across his jaw, and
I made sure I didn't scrub my hands first,
just to make the fucker squirm.

Once five years passed, I realized
the extent of his compulsions. Once
I heard him sobbing over the sink, the
clarity struck me harder than I ever
struck him. I don't get why

I was so harsh, but I knew he was
better off without me clinging to him,
like a stain he could never clean off, like
a bacterial reminder of his own breakdown.

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