While Barbie cleans up blood in the kitchen, after having nearly severed her index finger, I have the same iron taste in my mouth as when I watched his face as he lied to me. A hurried rush of Red on Black, streaming & violent, a stoned-dogma, a splayed bend at the knee to quickly clean a mess up: gauze-like, thin-bandaged, blood-soaked ephemera flung aside. I light a cigarette, watch her tend to the wound. I will not. I will not. I will not. Swallow this again. Barbie goes loose & shadowlike, falls hard on the kitchen floor, just like the first time.
[first published at killauthor.com]
