what he did

i step my corrupted carcass

through the door of the house where he died.

i smile,

stale and performative,

and the manufactured teeth conform to mirror me.

guilt,

humid and heavy,

clings to my skin and

trickles down my neck,

further and further,

downwards,

tickling my back.

they start talking to me,

foreign sounds unrecognisable

when so harshly juxtaposed against my shame.

my most convincing grin

is bared

brashly against my face,

my sullen eyes snitching on my despair.

in the shower

water blistering against my

pale ribs

turning them pink,

i think of how he felt when

gripping them.

how kind of him

to decorate my corpse

with such

pretty

bruises.

how considerate of him that they were

so easily hidden.

the water corrodes

his trace off my skin

yet the shame and

the guilt

eat away at the flesh he enjoyed.

i stare down at the food,

limp and pathetic on my plate.

i don’t want anything else

inside

of me.

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