sweet purging

there was that time
where, detangled she spun on
cold linoleum,

clammy hair
dripping
down porcelain,

an effort to disgorge
the cancer of you
from her ailing ribs.

her father, in the door frame,
blurred through tears and helpless there,

           his heavy shield, found weak
           against this
           glass explosion
                     within her,
           the fragments rupturing her skin,

whispering shoulder promises
that he knew she could not hear.

you are not to blame, child,
for your love of the poisoned cup,
or the inferno in her gut.

Later in dreams she would find
that she needed you
        
to drown
her

Foolish
wont for love.