My Red Lady
By Blake Tan
Nights I used to wake up in torment, you hanging over me,
a spirit conjured up by my sleep,
white, cold fingers wrapped around my heart,
crushing and squeezing until it fought no more.
I couldn’t let myself heal over. No one else to fit
the wound in my breast, to staunch the bleeding.
All I’d see was your face superimposed over theirs,
golden, brown, or black hair – it didn’t matter –
you were always there. Half a hundred girls
all wearing your face.