It was when you would bruise me gently to the serenade of the sunset and the pink skies darted into your gaze and it was hypnotic.
I was locked within you and you slit me open slightly every evening. Wounds healed quickly but the bruises stayed, I have always wanted tattoos and you were such a beautiful artist.
You policed me but you pleased me.
We acted in our movie and you caressed me in pearls you found on the ocean beds in a past life.
I look right, those books pile up and collect our anger in particles of dust they are so grey I have forgotten the titles but they complement the smoke which cascades down the once white walls that I smeared in lipstick every time I wanted you to die.
The walls are an art installation they reveal all that is evil in the world, ending the life of another and slow suicide from the smoke that frames your lungs.
I hate how you carry that knife behind me, but I love it when you cut my hair over the bath and shower me in rose petals.