Disquiet

It's in the gloaming in lingering twilight that beside me the disquiet sidles clouds idle, the violet of a bruised eyelid and shape of fingers broken and long healed permanently wrong. Inside me the violence is silent but wants me pried open wants my right hand knuckles swollen wants an explosion The release of a fight so long denied I've forgotten how my nose feels broken It's ironic, my kindness. The lie of my niceness. How I hide behind politeness. I'm like a vegan that ate meat as a child and loved it, devoured it, cracking open the bones to lap up the marrow, who greedily suckled the fatty sleeve on a new York strip, who now frequents dreams where steaks make blood puddles all over the plate. In the dreams the blood tastes of violence and light, when she breathes she can taste the death in the silence and in the blood on her tongue she tastes life.