NOT DRIP DRIP

A GIRL'S ANGER AFTER BEING JILTED AT THE ALTAR IN 1971

Yiska folds and unfolds
a small piece of paper.

Her fingers are nimble;
I watch her
from the armchair
by the window
of the locked ward.

My eyes focusing
on her standing there;
her concentration
on the task at hand
quite neat.

What you doing?
I ask.

It's his last short note
about not showing
at the wedding;
about leaving me
at the altar.

She folds it small,
then unfolds it;
her fingers having
that determination
about them.

Why did he do that?
Why not just say
before hand
he couldn't go
through with it?

She folds it so small
it's tight as tight.

Because he's a prick;
has no backbone;
no sense
of letting others down.

Bit of a clown.

More than that:
a complete arse.

I watch as she unfolds it,
and opens it wide,
and tears it
into small
confetti-like pieces
and drops
in a waste bin
by her feet.

She rubs a scar
along her wrist,
white against pink,
where the blade slit,
where the blood
was let slip;
gushed,
not drip drip drip.