The rain almost feels like your fingers playing a tune on my back. It terrifies me to not know what the night will bring, but I cannot abandon my illusions of you for a single breath of the hearth. I pretend the rolling storm is an entire orchestra just for me, but the wet trails on my body speak louder than the thunder. There is a trauma stretching inside of me. Yawning. Awakening. It is dancing with my thighs; I am spread so thin my voice is harp strings beneath the awning moon. My fist is smaller than I remember, and yet my hearts has sunk to the bottom of my soles. I crush it out like it is his cigarette butt. My body wriggles in the mud as if I am on fire, I cannot tell if I am choking or suffocating. My mother’s china set broke more elegantly than I ever have; there have been too many halcyon nights of Russian roulette, I should be mistress of the game by now. But I have no mastery of my own body, not since I was introduced to the concept of love. He says I’m a tangerine: bitter to bite in to, but undress me with rapidly, and I am panting to be sliced open. He says he has a fetish for gutted fish, so I go down. Too many people tried to fit in to my body, that no I am bursting pulp all over the crime scene, yet all I say - all I can say - is forgive me. There is relief knowing you are not here tonight, there’s a nameless grave to be filled, and while I can pretend the night was a ballet, it was not. The day I dig myself out, is there some place you can meet me halfway?