There is beauty in the cracked half moon imprint of your smile,

it is blood red,
painted on,
like the fastened belt we hang over my door,

it is a warning sign,
that belt,

that in this room people are *******,
by the waist,
by the wrists,
one time by the neck,
but we mustn't speak of that,

we leave the belt to hang there for the perceptive,
who never realise that this is a solitary palace,

and we gift the belt to the gormless,
the ones who come for shackles or silence.