The Woman on Screen
The woman on screen
is covered in blood.
Her friends weep,
and shout
and wail
while she stares
dead-eyed at the wall.
My hands are covered
in paint and glue.
I stick squares
of paper together
to take my mind
off the horror
of scripted television.
The woman on screen
describes the terror
of her attack.
She tells of the violation,
the disgust
the fear.
Her body is covered
in swollen bloody wounds.
Your wrist is broken,
they say to her.
Your hand too.
Maybe your nose
and eye socket as well.
My phone beside me
beeps. I check it
by stabbing buttons
with sticky glue-ridden hands.
The message tells me
to stop watching,
to walk away.
I refuse.
I am waiting
for the happy-ending
resolution that television
can give me,
even if life can’t.
The woman on screen
walks away
from the hospital.
She does not know
she is part
of a scripted show,
she is making me
forget this too.
She does not know
that she has only to wait,
that she is guaranteed
a happy-ending.
I check the time.
The hour is almost up.
The woman on screen
is still walking away.
I wait for the resolution,
for the moment
that will allow
me to sleep tonight
but instead
the credits roll
over a picture
of her bruised
and bloody face.
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