His blood shot eyes,
pounding fists against my door,
slurred speech – I should have known
not to open.
Clumsy body, lie to sleep,
instead he lay on top of me.
Like a child searching for a mother
to cast out demons from beneath the bed,
to me he turned his heavy head,
and I was suffocated by his need.
His shirt, a white flag,
hangs from the dresser.
My jeans, torn down their seams,
my wrist wears a bracelet of blood.
Still drunk of last night's decisions,
he rises in search of sobriety,
in this muck of sin.
I did not consume insanity,
and yet was consumed by his.
I am dirtied with regret,
longing I had drank to my heart's content.
Outside, I walk, a flimsy picture,
barely terror, barely shock,
beneath the trees rain upon me.
I can only inhale when they're on fire,
like his blood shot eyes.