You sit, if sitting is the right word
Broken, dead inside
Won’t you look at me?
Pools of (blood) wine stain
The rug. You always liked it.
The patterns were nice, you said.
It’s wretched.

You sit, if sitting is the right word,
Your face a shadow,
Always,
Gray. Amber.
Brass shines, wax leaks,
Hardening on the oak.
You had it lacquered.
No scratches. None.
Swallowing air like water never was so beautiful until I saw you cry.

Weep. I watch you gasp in the oxygen,
Your body shudders.
Kneeling. Folds of black satin,
That gown cost too much.
Who are you?
Go away.

Your hair, the mass of curls.
It falls.
Down. It’s a mess.
The handkerchief pressed to your lips blocks the sobs
I’ve been longing to hear.

Your eyes, their shape,
Too round. Too knowing.
Let me know.
Just once, let me know.

You sit, if sitting is the right word,
Choking on your lies.
Suffocate. I put them there.
Your tongue will turn black with the words of love
I could listen to for hours.

That vase. You broke it.
The edges are sharp.
Wet with blood.
Your blood?
Or mine?

I am tired. Pale.
(Not pale like you)
This suit is too small.
You adore it, its lapels dressed in satin.

I watch your fingers. Fingers like a spider’s legs.
Fingers that bore my wedding ring and never tired of stroking my hair.
Your hands muffled my thoughts.
Smoothed my suspicions.
Cupped my ears from sounds and shielded my eyes from your deceptions.
I’ll break them. Knuckle by knuckle.
Just to hear you scream.

You look lovely. But laundered. Washed from color.
Hold my hand once more.
Wipe my mind clean of your tales.
Trick me again so I may know your false tenderness another time.

I sit in the chair,
Another piece of furniture that is credited to you.
My cheek in my hand. Dark eyes angry. Sad.
Whisper to me your charming words,
And lead me through the gardens.
I will not speak a word.

Take me back to where I was before,
I regret it, you know.
These truths are a poison to me now.
They lost their sweetness long ago.

Your tears stale, your breath evening.
Do you notice me?
Apparently not.
Your tears come again.

You struggle for words,
Wallowing in the realities that you lock behind your teeth.
They seep through.
Muck from a sewer grate.

Your hand to your chest,
Handkerchief as white as your skin you gaze at me,
Eyes glazed with apprehensiveness. And fear.
Your voice breaks, but you speak.
Your voice like the sing of a violin.
Tart as fruit. Melancholy, perhaps.
My name flutters from your lips like a bird from its cage, truth
Shivering past my ear before dying out into the oaky silence of the room.
Our eyes meet.
The greenness nearly blinds me.

My chest squeezes like a sponge being wrung
The dull pain a faint thud in my chest
Blood pulses.
So loud.

The intoxicating fog that blinds me,
Now thin,
Is puffed away like the light of a candle when I speak your name.
“Charlotte.”
And it’s done.