Forty-Eight by Myriam San Marco

Little slivers of hate curled up in the morning.
7am: This, the hour for the early shriek – closed curtains.
Nothing to see here so I moved to London.
And still I expected the knives to come back.
I went round and round and left and right and up and
Down sometimes
I hold my new keys my new nose my new job close.
I keep my head down but I don’t drown.

Little slivers of hate curled up at midday.
The sunlight steps over my shoulders – silent kitchen bruises.
My face pressed to the lino I notice the speck of dirt you wanted
me to see. I make a list of all the constellations, under my breath,
to tune out the stench of your blows.
You pull my skirt up…
You tell me you are doing this because you love  me, too much.
I say nothing.
I wait.
Even after the sulfur of your grope has dissolved,
I wait.

Little slivers of hate curled up in the evening.
The moonlight fringes my gloved fingers – red-eye flight.
In the hushed space before the slam- bang of the front door
I pause
and look at the racked knives.
Smooth, soft, slender blades –
slashes slits stunned furrows in your neck.

I had counted to 48 when you stopped moving.

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