I could skin myself with my nails and dry my veins on the clinically cool marble floor of the whites of your eyes and expose the vacuous cavity of my battle-scarred chest and propel my broken dusty bones like wings crackling out of my back that you whipped without words and execute my finale with my fleshy coat, my first love, caressing the muscles of my tender neck that never felt your tender touch, a bloodless blood eagle gracefully suspended in flight for all eternity and expire then choose to retire from my purgatory hell to re-enter the floor above and untangle myself from the entails of my entrails and, slowly slipping back down to the blood stained pristine ground and crawl back into my shell that you let me scrape clean and stand up, the awkward skin no longer sitting right, having lost its youthful turgidity, no longer fits tight, it sags and slips and slides in all the odd places, my unintended smile revealing broken teeth filled with your blank spaces and all you would do is smile and inwardly elevate your thin brows and shake your head and I would cool the reignited fury in my charred heart with the waters of resignation and the ice of your callous soul when you ask me if it’s that time of the month again.