She

N.B. For all the tempestuous sisters in the world making other peoples’ lives a misery.

She said,
That the fault lies on your hands,
His wrists bloody from the cutter that you used on him,
Your handcuffs dug into his skin,

She said,
That when your words fall to the air,
They twist like a knot into his head,
Something he will never be able to untangle himself out of,

He is too vulnerable, like a saint, like the lips of a baby, like a dove wing.

She,
Oh she,
She said his eyes boiled under your careful watch,
You turned the heat up and he bubbled, then fell away,

You squeezed his head up until his brain popped,
And she said that you were tying the noose for his neck, as it were,
That is to say you wanted to kill him,
Put his body in a drain and leave him to the sewage,

That you had muddied him,
Ruined him, she said you wore him once then you shredded him at the seams,
She said you had a smile so convincing that it could change the weather,
That you were growing inside him like a tumour.

I promise I was never such a woman.
He could’ve been the pearls of the rain.
She said I was somewhat of a murderer,
But her hands still held the knife.

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