Nikki XLIV

Shit,

she said, stepping on the bones.

I watched from the doorway, knelt into silence.

The blood was sweet-smelling, the way some girls wear perfume.

She moved into the room like it was hers.

Anarchist, she called me—a slur I wore like armor.

Her breath fell on me like the blade of memory.

She touched my face

because she could. I opened my mouth,

and the night eagerly crawled inside.