Domesticated Violence

They said love was tender, so I offered my throat to your ghost-mouth, let your breath curl into mine— viscous as syrup left out, subject to the shape of its jar. Your bombardment of devotion felt like hail, each for your own good sharpened to a fine mother's edge. There was a box you wouldn’t let me open, labeled Not Yours, but warm to the touch, and I swear I heard it weeping. When I finally pried it loose, the dark inside eclipsed me, but not like the moon— like a father who's sat too close in the pew. No light gets in. No light wants to. You put your pants on, and eat me for breakfast.