I stole her story.
She did not consent
to have her soul
torn to two
spread across
this earthly crust
then rendered again
in paper pulp.

It was a **** of syllables.
I took her breathes.
I took her lips.
Writing all the words
she whispered with,
I took her dreams.
I took her stars.
I took her thoughts
as though they were mine.

I savagely plundered
what was beating under,
not with ****** depravity
but with the gravity
of her dark and painful reality.

I stole her story
as she stole the razor.
I took her last seconds
as she took the tightness
of her wet skin,
plunging metal in
and letting red clouds
swirl in smoking form
under the pressure
of waters warm.

As the weight of life
pulled her head under
and porcelain edges saw
slick streams of diluted life
run over both its sides,
I pictured her truth
in my mind.

A fiction of strange proportions,
Life’s moist abortion
made into a poem
by some idiot
who could not forget
the same dark wet
dreams of
a steaming bathtub death
he wanted for himself.