Blood Sport

“you make me sick”

i look up at the sound of her voice, tinged with fire and venom

she’s glaring at me - what’s the phrase? hell hath no fury?

i don’t think i’ve ever feared for my life like i do staring back at her

my jugular feels like a beacon, blinking bright red and perfectly accessible

reflected back in her eyes

i wish they were cold and calculating

instead they’re molten, visceral

threatening an inky exsanguination

cinnamon-flavoured syrup coating her maw and mandible

“you let him defang you, declaw you

let him gut you like a fucking prized stag from the hunt

and then stitch you back together with dental floss

and call it love”

the wounds in my chest ache, a minty burn along the edges

remnants of a red and raw cold water plunge

“what have you named this era? sitting shiva?

you disgust me”

she reaches for me and i don’t flinch

can’t show weakness, palms against my cheekbones

“one day this will just be a scar you tell your children fairytales about”

i feel new enamel breaking gums - a gift or a curse, i haven’t decided

interrupted by gunshots, rapid and sharp

… “are you done in the bathroom?”

i smudge a toothpaste stain off the glass with my sleeve

… “yeah, sorry.”