On the floor (a pretense poem)
Orderly, alone and quiet in the dusk.
Oatmeal spilt over her milk-cream face.
Porcelain skin breaking under lackluster weight.
And the starlight in her eyes.
Still. Even though tired.
Even though defeat. Even though almost asleep.
Close your eyes, the man whispers,
And she does as she's told.
Kissing his feet, as she goes down,
Her spine twisting under his thorn-whip,
Her back longing for a soft bed, but finding nothing in its' fall.
Silent and cracked, she whimpers.
Mushy on the marble floor, she begs,
Wishes it wouldn't take so long,
Asks for the screaming to stop and swears -
Swears she'll love him always,
That she will never leave, never seek other worlds.
Yet, her words are not enough for him.
They never have been, and so,
The whip comes down harder and harder,
Her cries mingling with mascara,
Her fingers reaching up his thighs,
But it's too late now, she finds, as she tries,
That she can no longer stand up, no longer lift herself,
For the man she so loved, it seems, has shattered her spine,
Leaving her tiny and alone in a world that does not know her.
In the darkness of his absence, she cries.
'Come back,' she says, but the man does not hear.
Wipes the droplets of blood off his chest and walks away,
In perfect silence, saying a soulless prayer for his fallen woman.
Sounds of torn nails, cracked ribs and stomach grumblings
Punctuating the quiet he leaves behind.
But she's gone now, in a realm past hearing.