Unripe

My husband is not a kind man and with him

I am not a good person

But I married him anyway

because the fruit of rebellion was ripe

ready to be plucked

My husband is a hunter. I am a knife

he chases and I thrust

slashing pulses with mere words

and catching fruits that drip blood

My husband is a stone thrower

I am a glass house

I never know when he will sling and

shoot me backwards into the grips of grief

My husband is a liar, I am his secret

he always comes home in the dark

shiny shoes paired with fire and brimstone

crushing to ash the lives we have created

All good secrets have a taste before you tell them

and if I had taken a moment to swish this one around my mouth

I might have noticed the sourness of an unripe secret

plucked too soon

stolen and passed around before it's season