You're here right next to me.
I talk to you, but you can't hear.
Oh no, but at least you try. Or
you would if you could go back
and tell yourself about now. Change something,
make something better. Maybe hide
those knives.

I'm looking into your eyes. This
is yesterday, and you've put me down
one too many times again. You've gone
too far. I clench my teeth and
the sun sprays delicate patterns on the floor,

mimiced by your blood. Paint.
Syrup, wine, all these metaphors.
You didn't shriek like the do in the movies
or apologise. You just stared,
vaugely shocked or suprised.
I don't know which. Does it matter now?

Your left eye is attracting flies.
There's red brown stains on your shirt,
I should wash that sometime.
I cleaned the carpet, burned all
my books of poery, oh yes. Just like
you said I should.