On Her Killing Floor
Filling my willing heart
with ever-building anxiety
as I eat from the manger,
strangers peering inside of me
see my seams fray over
cleaned wounds while I
cling to her bedroom with
a haunting premonition
that she’s scribing our
tombstone, hoping that
everything that can,
will go wrong.
I lay on her bed
pretending it is a grave,
believing I should be dead;
I swear, I’m already staved.
“Te amo,” I imagined she said
as she closed the door
and left me alone, bleeding
out on her killing floor.
