the sink is rung with blood
and  with crimson on your hands
you smile through your painted mask.

your veneer of kindliness
is cracked, my dear, and our dinner
guests might be able to see through,
to see the real you.

you can mask my bruises in makeup
but lately these wounds have been
getting deep. these cuts are not so shallow
any more and others can see your art.

you painted me like the nighttime sky
in purples and blues, speckled and shaded
into your creation.

my knees are cracked open
and all that you can do
is pour salt from your
pocket to keep the pain anew.

but you have been running out of tricks
and there is nothing within your grasp
to keep the rope around my neck,
to keep me confined in your grasp,
I’m afraid we have reached an end.