“Your lip is bleeding..”
So are your ears. I took a bite of your lobes in retaliation.
My pallet has acquired the taste of blood; how is your face dealing with the sensation?
Your bastard hands fed me glass in the place of the croissant I asked for when you offered breakfast in bed. I sat soaked in the sheets now leaking in the aftermath of your poisonous passion. Your eyes travelling up and down the ridge of my nose as the tray shook.
The bottle of orange juice she asked you to give me was heavier than expected. The sacs were not birthed from fruit but from trees. I reached out to grab it in wanting thirst but that curtain interrupted your step and you dropped it.
“Ignore the spill, I don’t want your breakfast to get cold”.
But windows shiver with cold dew and here you carried pieces of the one that cracked when you saw my car lights as you dropped your keys after walking through our kitchen door at an unmentionable hour.
If only tongues bent like spoons off a hot stove I would still have the half that was brave enough to say you are breaking me.
Your bastard hands fed me glass.
Why are you pretending to be unfamiliar with the smell of my blood? On depletion you drank from my heart’s flood and still asked for more beyond the rainbow coloured by my exhaustion. The words you hear are the products of the excess waste your hands delivered to my mouth. How then is the sting of my bite unbearable when you designed this menu?
Ask me where the napkins are…
If you are kind to me for just a day I may show you in gestures how to wipe the blood just enough for cameras not to see it. If the smell begins to choke you, like me, tell yourself you signed up for this.
Don’t spit into your hands. You need them to replace her bottle of orange juice and refill it with your own sweet tea.
She like me will become accustomed to the taste of cold broken glass; If the smell of my blood doesn’t repel her first.
The sharpest piece just purchased a one way ticket to my heart.