The lips He pushed open and entered. My open mouth, my dark hair, my slender body, my parting legs. And I stare back at her. Her head still on the pillow. I whisper into her ear. I lean over her, I touch her cheek, her neck, the softness of her ear. And I stare back at her. She opens her mouth. She should know me. His eyes shut, holding a picture of me. My hands, my tortured hands: their broken bones and gouged nail holes that weep slowly to my finger-tips. She will see me now. To see what He wanted, what He took, what I let Him have. My hands, my tortured hands: their broken bones and gouged nail holes that weep slowly to my finger-tips. She should always know. Sweeter. Open beneath their shading lids. In the cell beneath the City Hall. I want her to know. I knew where she would be sleeping. She stares. She cannot stop herself from staring. My hands, my tortured hands: their broken bones and gouged nail holes that weep slowly to my finger-tips.
