Today could be any day,
I won’t talk specifics.
But not this day.  Not this day.

In the morning, before I made him leave
with the vagrants, I told him about swans.
I dreamt of hiding, and everywhere I went,
there he was, tall form,
with a look on confusion on his face,
“Raped you?”
How odd, then, to now be in a safe place,
to have a real bed.

I am not the girl whose head he shaved.
I am a hard stone.  I am no longer interested
in soft curves.  I am made of angles.
I shot him twice and his eyes closed,
head fell back, and his hat fell off.
I thought of apples and arrows and I said,
“Your hat fell off.”  and he said, “I know, I’m dead.”
And yes I think it means something if I throw up
in my mouth at the sight of you.

Realization: it’s not you that I want but the absence of something else.