How to be an Attention

Tell Him

you’re leaving

and you’re not coming back;

He doesn’t love you enough

and it’s over.

Pack a bag,

pack two –

in slow motion –

wait for His pleas

promises,

marriage propositions.

Accept an apology

for something He didn’t do;

leave anyway.

 

Return to your childhood home.

Illustrate your angst

with sobs

and tears

over breakfast

lunch

and dinner,

all the while

evidencing the sluggish

text responses

and His inability to say

I love you

three times a day,

as examples of His neglect.

You’re a victim,

you say,

at the mercy of a man

with no conscience.

 

But when your story

exhausts

the Awws

and Ohhs

and Nos,

and they want to speak

about something

anything,

everything else

but this,

leave the table.

Throw yourself

from the first floor window

of the two storey cottage,

landing soft

upon the water-sprinkled

summer lawn.

 

Forget the ankle pain.

Rehearse death:

relax your muscles,

shut your eyes,

stop breathing.

Wait for screams;

feign rebirth.

 

Celebrate

in their new-found relief

of your continued existence

but be wary:

it won’t last long.

You need to cry –

again –

and when

you’re dry

of tears for him,

think of a back-up plan:

recall that thing that makes you sad;

that birthday gift

you wanted but didn’t get

when you were eight.

Cry a tear,

try another two,

elicit attention

then stop talking;

stare off

into the distance.

 

And when

again

they can no longer listen

and when you’ve exhausted

everyone else.

and your cries

and screams

and tears

and fears

go unheard;

when sympathy is exchanged for spite

and you’re told

you’re a child,

evidence your qualifications:

a bearer of saggy boobs

stretchmarks

and greying hair.

You’ve had a hard life,

you say,

nobody has had it as bad as you,

you say,

nobody knows what it’s like to be you,

you say,

nobody,

nobody,

nobody.