ingredients list is slid to me - a sly hand as the parchment drifted along the wood. the writing elegant and i could almost mistake it for a love letter.

however when i read it's more so an omen to death.

i stare up at you - you're across the room - not looking but i know your can hear me.

what the hell is this?

eyes glaze up and the axis of your mouth tilts.

you're insane.

i ignore you at lunch - letting the ginger and lemon grass cake my throat like mud and it's bitterly sweet.

more slops down - choking me but i watch in a strange fascination as eleanor dotes over you like a wife of infidelity at church. grasping at the robes of the priest - wanting you to purge her of her sins but she doesn't know the hell that's in store for in the privacy of confessional.

i don't like religion and i hate you but i still wished i believed in god.

you and him are the same coin, just ideologies for control.

still, your lies of fresco ceilings are a sight to behold and i can't help but admire from a distance as you build her up again - i suppose i'll find her sobbing in the bathroom by the end of week.

foolish girl.

hypocritical of me? indefinitely. but i feel my judgment would be sparing her. there's only room for one shattered piece, glass can only disperse so far.

i'd rather it be me than her, at least eleanor has more distractions. she has the money and power and you're just a small part of her life.

later that night i'm walking when you pounce - skirt up - tights and skin torn - draping me in blue velvet that's tender to touch.

we spin and spin and spin - i can't see anything but you and we fall right into your bed.

edging - biting - kneading- thomas - you pull away and your eyes are replaced by the black and white of your suicide note.

i'm not making that.

you're still on top of me, trapped under a cage of flesh and bone and the paper sits like a rift between your digits and you hum - why not?

make it yourself.

i need you to do this for me.

there the church bells were again, drowning out the screams of the choir that sung about doomsday. i need you i need you i need you buzzing in my ears like a hornet.

why?

your eyes melt like tar and i'm stuck - i know damn well you can make the poison yourself but you like seeing me struggle - debate - you like seeing me hate myself.

but you don't answer, you spew no lie but perhaps the silence does the job for you.

like you said, you're just bored.

let me entertain you, then.

i clutch the parchment like a rosary, but it burns and welts my skin - blisters of honey and sap bubble and i tear them open as i scramble at the foundations of your pew.

i'm crying again - hot syrup drips off your tongue as you lick the salt away - lower you go - searching for hidden artifacts - picking away - making me thrash and thomas it hurts.

but then you whispered mine and the spell swung down on me again - tying around my neck - mine you chant - the floor falls beneath me - your claws snake up and i'm choking - mine is your mantra that you mumble at the gallows.

mine mine mine spills out of your throat as your feral eyes watch my legs kick - eyes gaping- mouth desperate and desolate for any scrape of rationality left.

mine as you then watch my body swing to a calming stop as if the breeze had finally given up.

when you cut down the rope and i fall like a sack of spoiled hearts i hate that i crawl to you as if you've saved me when you're the one pointing the gun.

perhaps it was your turn to kill me.

i murder you every night.