The cold measured cuts
of your nightmares are real.
When you could no longer torture
yourself, you turned the blade on me.
I went down in the surprise round.
You waited for me to come to
and flipped me over,
and made me watch
your blade’s slow agony
sweep and slice and spin
through your deadly whispers.
You took breaks with girlish laughter,
And unrestrained joy.
They’re always so short.
When you return you
catch my eyes
and bow low
sweeping the blade.
And you raise
holding my gaze
a clean kill.
You did that.
And you killed
You pretend the charnel ground doesn’t exist;
It’s unsightly and filled with dark secrets.
I may have jumped the gun in this one. It's changing fast. Faster than readers can cope with—they'll be various versions of this floating around now.
It came about because I want to write the bubble bath series, but to make it worth while I'll need to spread it out so I can better test the code.
Then I got excited by a couple lines, and couldn't not scribble and scribble.
And then technical issues happened, and I was faced with publishing or loosing. So yeah, a lot of things came together causing this premature birth. It's gonna be hit and miss for a while.
I'm still trying to figure out if it's a poem or a story or a letter from the frontline.