Mr. Emmeline Pankhurst

Megan Smith

I come home to an empty house, again.

Alone I sit,
Alone I eat,
Alone I sleep, Bitch.

My identity is slowing eclipsing in the darkening shadows of her glory.

At night I toss and turn,
Suffering in silence,
Whilst she is absent,
in prison; committing felonies; arsony; assault; corrupting whomever she can get her claws into,
and ‘Emmeline forbid what else’.

She used to let me touch her.
Kiss her,
Caress her.
My passions and intimacy were the only rights she used to yearn for.
Alas, she found another to spend her nights with,
One of whom she lets encompass her for hours, sometimes even days…

Sometimes I wait until she is gone,
and consider showing the housemaid my member of parliament.
Perhaps she won’t be underwhelmed by his dictatorial policies.

Like a desperate mouse, I am trapped
under the sinister and slowly sharpening claws of the cat I call emasculation.
So when the hushed man inside of me finally does fall,
I doubt all the King’s horses and all of the men
will be able to stand in her way, ever again.


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