You won’t remember all he did
to you, evidence notwithstanding,
tawny eyelashes and pale arms suffocated
in shadow, strips of your skin curled away,
your body a vessel, spilled, then filled
with ash, a window overlooking
your ruin a part of the illusion.
There will be moments– reminders,
the awful music of salacious syllables
crackling the air, the heat compelling
your body to shrink, gasp for air,
lungs spilled then filled with contradiction.
Look back far enough, it all becomes
suppressible, a drawerful of rubble and grit.
An aura surrounds you, chafes
the alabaster walls, which has nothing to do
with transformation and everything
to do with speculation, the future not what
it used to be, spilled, then filled with soot.
Your face, now merely a suggestion
of your face, poised, ready to blow
out a match, held to your lips,
your mouth desperate with teeth.
