Eyes rimmed in red,

I grasp the pencil and etch out your name.

 

Ridges that form the smooth yellow wood

echo the heartbeats vibrating my chest.

Slow, steady, predictable.

 

A contradiction to the paper that bleeds

lead into branches; bent and distorted like

the fluid skating down my cheeks.

 

Makeup an oil spill slickens my face now

blemished in black war-paint.

 

The bright wood fractures against my palm

broken from a tight grip. A reenactment of

when my body bowed under your hands.

 

I grasp a new pencil and etch out your name.

Shaking, constricted by your phantom control,

I begin to fill out the report.