Bluebeard (a)

You always knew it could not last -
long before crossing that threshold,
the seed of doubt had grown a flower -
yet the fragrance mattered more than the thorn
as into a garden it grew,
as into his trap you willfully went,
little fly walking a spidersilk tightrope.

How well he hid his secrets - bodies
dusted down with lye, festering with the questions
he forbids you from ever asking.
He knew before he knew you which words could be
skeleton keys for your surrender
It is easy to believe you do not need a voice
with wedding rings in your eyes,
when he sews your mouth shut with seductions, 
when you ignore the signs, clear as a baby-
blue beard.

The honeymoon period curdled, a scream
stuck in your throat.

Memories are haunted places, 
cluttered with the specters of those he knew
before, pacing in the shadows, whispering
grim reminders that you are as easy 
to replace as soiled bedding.

Each time he left, you roamed his rooms, 
eyeing locks and bolts as if they were conspiring.
Who could blame you for prying
when the stench of suspicion overpowered the wedding
bouquet's perfume?

How many lies did you force into safer shapes,
climbing up from that dungeon where truth was 
wrested from the cold corpse of denial?
You blew out the gaslights, felt through the dark by hand,
fingers sliced on serrated sentences, 
limbs lanced in an iron maiden’s embrace.

Did you tell yourself it was your fault, your punishment,
that the blood beneath your nails was really only polish?
You wove so many stories -
but never one where you saved yourself in time.

And so, you join his harem of ghosts, wandering 
the garden you grew together, forever tethered
to a corridor of your own in his carefully-crafted castle.
He will never show the new you your hall - 
does he even remember your name? She will have hers,
your sister in suffering - and there are many - cursed
with now knowing what you always knew
and having little more to do about it
than rattle chains,

and moan.