you took it into your own hands
your face comes back to me
the silence in it
a kitchen standing still
the cut within your body
how blood was concealed
the thinning thread
red
curdled
white hair amongst the dust
on pillowcases
it would never go that far
you took it into your own hands
you wouldn’t end like them
you wouldn’t end
something would
would they
heads of the kitchen table
I waited for your mouth
when I should have seen the look in your eyes
carved
and they grew old
and you left the room
Croque-Melpomene 