Loving you was like seeing absent color,
the unforgiving grays of a poet's December,
waking from a nightmare to a sky devoid of
stars and the moon sunk in the ocean.
The moment I laid eyes on you was the epoch
of my detachment
the collapse of all serenity.
You told me that your parents were dead and buried-
But sometimes they called your name from the wine cellar.
I begged you to haunt me when the lights were off;
"Ghosts won't bother other ghosts." I said
You went to the other side of the room and stared
at a fly dying on the windowsill. When the creature finally
stopped moving, you looked at me with empty eyes and said;
"They only talk to me during the day. Can't you hear them moaning?"
It was then that I knew you were something I could not save.
In our shower scene, I patiently waited for you behind the
curtain. I chose not to feel your blade slide under
my ribs, over and over again.
I knew it wasn't just blood that covered the ceramic floor.
It wasn't just blood that stained your shaking hands.
It wasn't just blood that circled endlessly down the drain.
What flowed from those wounds was my only release from
an offering to the versicolor gods.
And when I replay your psychosis in my head,
that crimson knife is the only thing with color.