Inconsequential Woman

I am an inconsequential woman. I lurk in the shadows,

a note flung in your trash,

alien scent on your shirt,

trophy lace in the back of your drawer.

The darkest places feel the safest,

but unpalatable

like the stench

of compost in the garden,

or the taste of adultery

in fingernails.

My silence lives in these scissions

whilst dressing for dinner. ‘Yes darling’

I drape my faceted self,

a glitterball clad in Dior,

around his slick, suited arm;

not like the arm I touched before,

bare skin moist with sweat as it lifted me closer—

your arm,

now also polished in dinner-suited propriety,

offering itself to a wife.

She also said ‘Yes darling.'

Maybe she was

inconsequential too?