It’ll soon be a year since your slaughter.
A year since you dined and feasted
on my hacked and gouged flesh: my mind’s walls
bear witness to that carnage when you tasted
blood, and your demented madrigals
of lust turned my soul to water.
Even now it intrigues me how finely
you took to killing: how blind I must have been
to miss the light in those devil’s pools
of your eyes…though, even if I’d seen,
what good would it have served a fool’s
purpose? You’d have killed just as unkindly.
Well, I’ve put myself together, you know.
Not quite what one was – can’t expect that,
can we? You were thorough, and hate
corrodes and preys on love’s larded fat -
but yes, a whole of sorts again, oblate
though scared of falls. I sit low.