You slept nights in 300 count cotton.
Maybe towards the end,
Denise shrouded you in 500.
Only today I noticed you missing.
In some police locker, obviously,
with the knife and GameCube.
I have to admit some jealousy.
You were the last to bruise his cheeks,
to taste vomit on his lips.
When you smothered his cries,
did you feel his tears soak through your slip
and stain you where you blinded him?
There was an instant, wasn’t there--
when he fought through the drugged sleep,
to feel his arms pinned between her legs?
You didn’t answer him, did you.
You thought you’d shelter him
from the precise nature of her betrayal.
I know you lay awake always
searching for his head to cushion—
to atone for his eternal rest.
If I can’t praise you, dear pillow,
if I don’t petition your release,
where will I find my place to sleep?
No comments:
Post a Comment