It’s strange what our brains do, don’t you think? Two days ago, I wrote what shouldn’t be called a poem, because poetry and Trump do not belong together. In my opinion.

 

I wrote verse. About Donald Trump.

 

Anyway.

 

To be honest, I felt a little drained yesterday, after writing the verse about Trump. Tired. A bit flat. I worked on my novel, but could only really get going late in the evening.

 

Earlier today, I sat down and an unpleasant incident from my early twenties resurfaced. I probably shouldn’t have been as surprised as I was.

 

I never sit down and tell myself, oh today I’m going to write about flowers, or rabbits, or the sun. Unless of course I’m writing from a prompt.

I know what triggered this. 

So here is it:

 

 

WITHOUT THE QUESTION MARK

 

He entered the building

Flushed,

Chubby,

A colorful vacuum-packed cyclist.

 

Polite,

I held the lift door.

Asked what floor.

All the way, he said,

Cheerfully.

Weirdly.

 

 

We rose in awkward silence

Can I kiss you

He said,

Without the question mark.

 

The lift wall.

The vaccum-packed cyclist

No longer fully vaccum-packed.

His hand finding his parts.

His face too close to mine.

 

Garlic and gum and sweat.

 

Top floor.

My floor.

 

I ran.

He did not follow.

 

 

I did not scream

I did not speak.

I trembled to safety.

And threw up.