by Elise Vinter

Created on: February 24, 2010

Maybe

Nonchalant, that is what he is

Surveying me in a clinical fashion

Curious of my quavering breast

Interest in my futile fetal curling

But I am not so impressed

Aren’t you supposed to cry?

Doesn’t pain make you cry?

But instead I am simply shocked

My hands are not made for plugging

As if I am an overturned full bottle

Spilt crimson thick wine

Pushing past fleshy corks

Burning in my lungs

I can’t take enough in

There’s too much going out

I can still see his mocking smile

I had no idea, no one told me

But he seems to know

Him with the stained knife

He knew it would be cold

Did he know it would be dark?

I feel lethargic and sleepy

I reach out to pull him close

I want him to see what he did

I cannot see… I can’t…

Does he… does he see?

Maybe after I sleep…

Maybe… May…be…

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