November 16, 2004

She wrote the note six nights before and left it on the bed stand.
staring at it, she unclothed herself, scarred arms bared to a barren room where the light could never quite enter the corners. it was anticipation, like teasing the tongue with the scent of melting sugars.
she felt the blood rushing in her veins, pumping through so slowly, like syrup.

pen slashes, it’s one year to date.
one year since those hands, caressing, ripped open the buttons and shoved their fingers into a sacred place. one year since the words whispered so carefully like placing eggs in tree were placed into her ears, her mind, her soul.

the bed, soiled, lay uncomfortable. it was not sleep material, and now it served for decoration, pretty quilts and patterns of light dance themselves dizzy across it.

he called it forced sex, she cried so hard.
there was nothing to do, so he never came back and there were no more phone calls or letters or whispered words like placing eggs into a tree. it was over, and now a year has passed and the bed still does not sleep.

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