All the time she was waiting, poised,
that other self, compacted of your pain.
She had a life sometimes in your voice,
and the horror tales that were your sad refrain.
You were not angry. There was no need.
But she was there, waiting for the kill,
the predatory lady who had to feed
on derelict emotions or grow ill.
The smallest thing might become a prod,
something I said or something that I lack.
When the time came for a trip abroad,
the person who went away did not come back.
You I love, but you are not the twin
who left me hanging, twisting in the wind.