September 4th, 2013

The words she used to bind him the words he used to fuck her with. The words he could look into the eyes of his son the words she could smuggle her love with.
The words that could slit a throat,  a wrist, cut the belly up. The words he used so he won’t have to beg. The words that made a day less clear, more dear.
The words that kept the night in check, never as black so as to swallow itself.  The words that divided, united, transferred, put useless time in place.
The words he beat her for the first time with.
The words that should have lead her out. The words he could have used to fight his father with.
The words she made up, almost silent ones, to let it become what it had become.
The words that slowly abandoned the house, leaving it scream, moan, shriek, leaving it whisper.
The words that became inaudible, autophagous.
She, he, he, he abandoned to it. Becoming it. No words to reach it.

The blue is mad. The house is wordless.

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