She doesn't speak of it,
Except in ink,
Once she would have whispered it in blood,
But that's been taken from her, too,
The way one can scream their sorrows
and fears into a cavern...
Even stranger how the cavern screams them
back, makes you remember,
His memory is like a corpse,
Dead, decayed hands gripping her,
salt-white against the black smudges
on her soul he left behind,
At night, while she sleeps,
he spins her hair around his
Sinks them past her temple-bones
& carves tiny holes into the twisted
Sanity leaked from behind her eyes,
Blood pooling in her ears,
Even in death he haunts her,
Who would have thought that
abuse could be delivered to the great beyond?
Some nights she thinks of when
he came up behind her, wrapped
his skeleton arms around her and
seeped poison from his pores
into her veins,
Some happy version of surreality
that electrocuted her from the inside
Left her burning alive for days like that
til she burned out in the dirt, left
smoking like the butt of an old cigarette,
He would always take his teeth then
and scrape away at the charred
remains of her flesh,
Tearing away at her chest meat
until the smooth, stark ribcage
was exposed and beneath it...
her beating heart, ripe and
flush with hope(s),
Carefully he laid her upon the
table of his solipsism & smiled
at her that beautifully grotesque
smile - as he plunged a fork into
it's delicate surface, sliced
clean through it & placed it on
She never screamed as he ate what
was left of the good in her,
The only thing she had left
of herself to love,
Just closed her eyes and made
a great exodus into her mind,
& when she came to,
Blood spattered and sprayed
the walls, the floor, the room...
She smiled to herself...
It was finally over...
The organ that had caused such
malicious grievance in her life
was gone & the ghost pains
were all that would ever be left,
Being dead wasn't all that bad...
Once he returned to find
a note, written in red ink:
"Thank you for the venom..."