Trigger Warning: allusions to sexual assault, rape and victim blaming
Put the kettle on
Molly Knox
I’ve decided tea helps, on nights like these
after the kettle steams, I think about leaving again. flicking my light on, counting on fingers the times
it lulls me back. I don’t drink tea usually – but it is ready. I slump heavily into her ebony mug with the
bears. I taste warmth. I remember, last time, last time spilled into the grey spaghetti she fed me
once I washed my hands.
But they don’t sit beside me
wrapped in a fork, I chow down mush as they all avoid my eye. mutual discomfort- tasteless, useless.
the predictable drive of the fork to the plate - we twist the blame together walking back down the
lane with snowdrops where it happened. heartburn proceeds the largest sip of my cliché. a wailing
‘third time this week’. stuttering like when I was five and in front of my class, reading aloud about
dragons and princesses in towers dangling their hair for men.
Their lamp spins and I can’t see. They enter, tired with authority they don’t possess. Slouching above
me, the sofa, the mug with the bears. They remain unchanged after my ode to lucky running shoes.
twice, on my fingers, I count and they ask are you making it up
that doesn’t happen here.
like FUCK it doesn’t
watery. I remember water – the rain falling into an open sea glass cup – bleeding. the oval shards
peeking by my eyelids. so I crawl through my cave with a blanket in the crying sun. yelling for
somebody – anybody to believe me. I must remember because they don’t - am I lucky because some
do? it rips out me when I suddenly gulp the guilt of the lights that led me to the door. that street.
that moment. glugging and heaving my putrid tea as a siren sings me a lullaby - window hanging
open as the kettle hisses out from the kitchen to go another round. I snap back
Believe me
Put the kettle on
Molly Knox
I’ve decided tea helps, on nights like these
after the kettle steams, I think about leaving again. flicking my light on, counting on fingers the times
it lulls me back. I don’t drink tea usually – but it is ready. I slump heavily into her ebony mug with the
bears. I taste warmth. I remember, last time, last time spilled into the grey spaghetti she fed me
once I washed my hands.
But they don’t sit beside me
wrapped in a fork, I chow down mush as they all avoid my eye. mutual discomfort- tasteless, useless.
the predictable drive of the fork to the plate - we twist the blame together walking back down the
lane with snowdrops where it happened. heartburn proceeds the largest sip of my cliché. a wailing
‘third time this week’. stuttering like when I was five and in front of my class, reading aloud about
dragons and princesses in towers dangling their hair for men.
Their lamp spins and I can’t see. They enter, tired with authority they don’t possess. Slouching above
me, the sofa, the mug with the bears. They remain unchanged after my ode to lucky running shoes.
twice, on my fingers, I count and they ask are you making it up
that doesn’t happen here.
like FUCK it doesn’t
watery. I remember water – the rain falling into an open sea glass cup – bleeding. the oval shards
peeking by my eyelids. so I crawl through my cave with a blanket in the crying sun. yelling for
somebody – anybody to believe me. I must remember because they don’t - am I lucky because some
do? it rips out me when I suddenly gulp the guilt of the lights that led me to the door. that street.
that moment. glugging and heaving my putrid tea as a siren sings me a lullaby - window hanging
open as the kettle hisses out from the kitchen to go another round. I snap back
Believe me