it has been a week, (or two, or three, or four)
and i cannot find you except in my nightmares.

"you like that, *****?"

it has been a week, (or a month, or a year)
and i drown inside showers that burn me inside
out.

"such a good little ****."

it has been a week, (or five years, or twenty)
and since you have seen my bruised organs,
you have spat on me and ran.

it is burned into my retina,
i close my eyes, and besides the igneous red,
i see your hands tight around my throat,

"why do you like being choked so much?"

because i’d much rather die at your hands,
than admit i still
care.