Red stains everything:
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
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
But the window remains dark
And I wait til dusk
To call the cops.