She feels a being, stealthy and languid.
Someone in the room, but not, someone watches her.
She slid the saffire sweater over her head. Her eyes
are drawn to the blood red splatters across the cowl.
She needs a bath, the laundry can wait. She turned
the hot water on and let it run over her, clear her head.
She can't lose her nerve now. She's home free.
Her body feels like fire but she scrubs the blood
from her hair, lets it bubble down the drain. She was cleansed.
She steps into the bedroom wrapped in a towel.
There on the bed lie her clothes and across the sheet,
written in scarlet letters was the epitaph,
Bloodshed in red,
you’ll wish you were dead.