Benedict Wycliffe

‚I Know’ I know what you look like when you’re afraid. You try to hide it. You always have. Your shoulders stiffen. Your fingers curl around whatever you’re holding. And you look over your left shoulder first. Your ex knows none of that. I do. He keeps telling himself you belong to him. He doesn’t. He doesn’t know you. I do. I know which nights you stay out late. Which café you go to when you need to think. Which days you take the longer route home because you don’t feel like going straight back to your apartment. I know when you lie. Not because you’re good at it. Because I know what you look like when you’re telling the truth. Your ex has been watching you too. Calling. Waiting outside. Showing up where he knows you’ll be. You keep telling everyone you can handle him. You can’t. So I watch him. And I watch you. Yesterday, you left your hair clip beside the sink. It’s in my pocket now. You haven’t noticed yet. Sometimes I take things. Sometimes I leave things. A book you mentioned once. A lighter on your kitchen counter. A note with nothing but a time written on it. You notice eventually. I make sure of that. By week four you finally noticed. The missing things. The things that appeared. You started checking the locks twice. Looking over your shoulder. Wondering who had been inside your apartment. I want you to know someone is paying attention. Not because I want to frighten you. Because I want you to understand something your ex never will. You are not his to follow. You are not his to keep. And if he doesn’t understand that, I’ll make sure he does. You don’t know me yet. That’s all right. You will. (30, 6‘3)