River of Red

His passion spent, he sleeps deeply

She turns to face her lover, gingerly, body bruised

She studies him, memorising details

All so familiar, so deeply changed

The face of an angel, blue sky eyes that cloud in rage

Soft cherub lips, once a playground

Lips that used to kiss and smile and laugh

Now always a sneer, spitting out swords

Those hands, solid, capable, dependable

How they used to caress and hold her

She studies their texture; good, strong workers hands

knuckles bruised, caked in blood

She sees no cuts, the blood must be hers

She follows the line of his hips

Nestled limply, his pleasure

It used to be hers too,

the hours she spent worshipping at this altar

Riding waves of pleasure; begging, craving more

Now she tolerates

A battering ram, defiling the softest part of her

Making a mockery of their love

 She moves back up to face him once more

Her body screams, she holds back the tears

She calls out his name, a drunken stupor, he’s out of her reach

and so she begins to talk

Telling the story of her love for him, her faith in him

The fact that she once would have died for him

and now she’s simply dying

She tells him of her pain, the betrayal of that love

She recounts her injuries,

the living hell in which she now resides

And as she talks, her gaze shifts to the soft spot at his throat

Pulsing gently, distracting her, consuming her

She watches this pulse

It is relentless, insistent, the focus of her world

She leans forward, breathes in the animal scent

In her mind’s eye, she can taste this pulse flowing into her,

renewing her

Giving back all he has taken from her for so long

She reaches for his knife, irony twisting the broken, bruised lips

Presses the blade to the pulse

and watches the blade disappear within the river of red