Waiting Room

Waiting Room.

I did not build this room
crafted
from my history by your mind.

A bus station
waiting room
from my hometown.

One row of theatre seats before a
high wooden counter.
Where teenage girls arrive in noisy rush
letting warm air out and cold in. Bags hanging from their
clasped fists, collapse onto seats, fits of smiles and silly banter.

For a while –
You stood outside
Looked through the misted space rubbed out by the side
of your hand.
Quiet.
Locked out.

In silent point –

Stealth like surreptitious
panther –
You opened the door.
Sat at the end of the row.
Leant forward
fascinated.
Listened for an eternity to all the words that fell from the roof of my mind.

Like this place belonged to you.
Preferred to your
own
childhood.
Times uncertain – of what you want: I tell you to leave.
A request that elicits a resolute – NO.

I can’t leave as it’s my memory
and your refusal seems
like a place of sanctuary.

Published by Stella McHugh

Survivor of so many things that happens to women and girls.

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