absolution

at least
in the end,
you were polite
about it.

your hand
rests gently
on the back of my neck,
nails rough and worn
as you trace your way
down the length of my spine,
turning each knob
with a definite crack and caress
until you reach the curves
of my hips
and dig in.
sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry.
i'm sorry.
my name, something other
than a curse, the words
just hovering
between the space of your lips
as one of us, i'm not sure who,
starts to cry.
we are left with
your hand on my heart,
knife on my gullet,
lips pressed softly to my cheek
in prayer
as you apologize once more,
and the moment
where everything pauses

and i brace myself
for the impact.

Bald Moon

You know I dream of a
bald moon,
pale in the remnants of a sickness
floating on the surface of the skin,
frothing within the veins
and piling high behind my eyelids.
I'll pool in the blood,
mark 'cross the darkness
as I step forwards across the hollow bridge
while the soft
sick sounds of reality snapping
echo around my flesh and
through the hollow curves of my bones until
I'm dying
again and again
within the sheets of a murder,
all white,
all damned,
slowly smoked apart and served
upon glass dished with the semblance of
your screams.

You know I wish that this
was over.

The Doctor

Every Tuesday morning he sits down in the second and final chair in the room and asks my husband what he’d like to talk about today. He always opens the door 30 seconds before 11 o’clock and then smiles when he sees my husband sitting there, as if he’s forgotten there’s no choice for either of them in the matter. He shuts the door quietly, without the general clack and bang of metal and wood attempting to fuse together in a way that should have never been made possible, and I find myself standing on the other side of the door in contemplation about the situation, just like every other Tuesday morning.

            

The dusty, gray blinds smoothed up against the window that make no noise as they swing back and forth, the sterilized silver of the door handle covered in the gentle grip of fingerprints and the little metal plaque below the window with the letters ‘Dr. Allaway, Psychiatrist’ engraved upon it.

           

I enter the room at 20 after and as usual, only the doctor notices, his eyes flickering to me before going back to the papers on his lap. He’s finally lost that scared, nervous look of uncertainty he thought he’d been hiding every time he laid eyes on me. My husband’s eyes remain fixed to whatever spot on the floor he’s focusing on, attempting to remain within the silence.

            

I probably should be calling him my ex-husband though, yet I can’t manage to staple the words down onto my tongue and force them to stay. It’s strange how we find it fit to label those moments that once consumed our lives, it’s almost like I’m admitting a mistake. And yet here we all are, the man I decided to marry one day, seven years ago, the doctor in the opposite chair and me, a shadow against the wall.

           

And then the conversation starts, or rather, it attempts to. Perhaps this will be the day there is crying, the big, gushing tears that roll down my ex-husbands cheeks, filling his lips with a saltiness that drowns out his apologetic pleas, that he didn’t mean to do it.

            

Or the rage that has nowhere to be directed. The chairs are bolted to the floor and there is nothing else within the confines of the room. No little paintings of general scenery, puppies and children running through a sunny field. No shelving units, no tables or throw rugs. Even the blinds are behind a second sheet of glass.

            

But someway or another, the confession will break, my ex-husband on the floor or huddled in his chair, the doctor thanking him for his time and the guards’ soft knock at the door. They’ll carry him out; whispering soft reassurances, promises of applesauce for desert, medication, a rest and finally the door snicks shut once more, leaving the two of us alone.

            

He’s still sitting down, the papers abandoned on the floor beneath his chair, his hair going slightly gray at the roots in a way that’s starting to bother him, a few days growth outlining his face and the same tired resolution in his eyes as he finally looks up and meets mine.

            

I smile. He smiles, though not a strongly as I do. Tracing his face, I let my fingers walk under his chin and brush my lips against his, hoping this time he’ll be able to feel my skin against his.

            

Nothing.

            

He kisses me back, his hands tracing where my face would be if I were physical. “I’ll see you next week,” he whispers.