Reminders
She chews on glass
Spits it on my white satin pillow
Shows me her tongue like a child with a missing tooth.
Why do you do this? I ask.
She answers, her mouth thick with blood -
It reminds me I'm alive.
She places needles through her skin
Twists them until they rip through flesh
Presses the wounds to my lips.
Why do you do this? I ask.
She answers, her eyes thick with tears -
It reminds me of my humanity.
She swallows bleach
Coughs up pieces of her throat
Which spatter across my chest.
Why do you do this? I ask.
She answers, her voice a ravaged groan -
It reminds me of why I scream.
She carves my name
Across her breasts
The knife rusty and dull and old.
Why do you do this? I ask.
She answers as blood sluices over her belly -
It reminds me that I once loved you.
She plunges a wooden stake
Through her stomach
The courage not there to hit her heart.
Why do you do this? I ask.
She answers, shutting the lid of my coffin -
It reminds me that we're not immortal after all.
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