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Sande Mitchell


Ashford, England, UK

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Sande Mitchell

If you'd just said you were sorry without the But.
But the But hangs there like an oppressive noose.
The But says you were justified;
says it was all my fault - But I was ill!
But I was provoked!
The But says it was alright to hit, swear, to abuse,
to violate my body.
The But hurts more than that searing penis, penetrating
bruised, damaged flesh - the afterbirth.
Hurts more than those shocked faces
as I hurled across a crowded shop.
The But sticks in the gullet,
won't be swallowed down.
Just three letters, one syllable.