Reeva Steenkamp
By Alison Stone
Cameras adore him—
that chiseled face, all
angle and shadow,
bright with tears. He sobs
about waking from nightmares,
won’t look at the picture
of what used to be my head.
His beauty blazes from each
newspaper and magazine
as they sell his
cripple to hero myth.
Me they confuse with Nicole
Brown, Bonnie Bakley, Natalie Wood.
Only my mother, granite-faced
in the front row, knows
my nickname, my favorite food.
He swears when I went
to bed that night, I felt loved.
Whether the judge buys it or not,
he’ll make the history books. I’m just
the dead girl, forgettable,
common as a shoe.
From October, 2014
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