Love, 20 years long, waning.
Love, golden rings wearing thin.
“A whore in the sheets.” that’s what he said he wanted.
He’d spit and say, “But you’re too Catholic.”
He made love to mirrors like Narcissi
Bathroom mirrors, vanity mirrors, rear view mirrors.
I used to wait for him to fall in
and slit his throat on shards of silvered glass
I should have pushed him but I was too Catholic.
This golden ring tightens. I lick my finger and pull it off.
I hear it jingle and roll as it hits the ground.
I don’t look back.