Red stains everything:

The floor

The sink

My hands.

The soft fabric of his shirt tugs against my bare skin.

I already burned my bra.

 

I’m thankful that the godawful, white picket fence

Shields me from view, thankful

that he put it up.

 

The fire hisses as I drop my jeans in the pit.

I shush it. Doesn’t it know he’s

asleep in the room

upstairs?

 

Our window remains dark.

The shirt I stole from him sizzles in the flames.

If he looked out now,

He’d see a witch dancing naked around the fire.

A witch who stole his wife’s face,

Whose hands are scarlet

Feverishly sweating.

 

But the window remains dark

And I wait til dusk

To call the cops.

 

 

Poetry

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