Send, all

It made sense to do it –
It was right, she knew it.
Knew she loved him.
He asked her, him,
Who she had idolised, fantasised,
His eyes on her, too.
Nothing was too much, right?
She loved him,
That was right.
Right now, that was all,
All that mattered.
He wanted her, him.
That made it right… right?
He had thought to write,
To ask – to beg – to see her.
What right did she have,
To refuse him?
She loved him.
That’s right…
He’d told her that,
When she’d sent her first:
Sent herself.
Herself to him.
Obscured, because that was right.
Risky otherwise –
No one has the right
The right to encourage,
To expect,
To enter.
How far to go between?
It didn’t seem much, right?
To let the dress fall,
After all, she loved him.
Then she got a call.
Something wasn’t right,
But they hadn’t had a fight,
Each night had ended well.
When it fell
(He’d asked to see the rest)
She didn’t know what had gone as well.
Right now, not just his eyes,
He had shown her,
Passed her around,
Spread her out,
Right out, for all to see.
Things might never be right,
Not right now, not ever,
So tight, I bet,
To bite, taste,
In colour and black and white,
Every sight, day and night,
On every site,
They talk and write,
Lust and spite,
Things will never be right.
She can’t fight.

Tom Martland studies English at Brasenose College, University of Oxford.

This piece is a runner-up in the Oxford Scientist’s Creative Competition for Trinity Term 2020, theme ‘viral’. The judging panel consisted of the senior editorial team at the time of the competition.