The Scar From Her Past by David Hensley

She was young and beautiful

a postgraduate visitor

fresh from Nigeria

I was bold and political

a postmodern clerk

from Calderstones Park


We talked

philosophical shite

and laughed, late into the night


We held hands as if hands were going out of fashion,

at first furtively, later longingly

palming passionately


Towards morning

we lay


naked and breathless


I want you

so much

she murmured

I want you too


I’m sorry she said

I can’t

That’s OK

I lied


Touch me

she asked

my tender fingertips


towards her warm wet womanhood


But it wasn’t there

just a hard cruel scar


It was cutting, a childhood


she confessed

as if she had some responsibility

for her disfigurement

we cuddled

and cried until dawn


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