Miss

in the fluorescent basement car park
there is no way to estimate whether it is night or day,
or the kind of weather
the only replies are the echoes of sounds you made

laying still on the floor by a neat row of motorcycles is a girl
dressed in nothing but filth
with eyes as vacant as the hum of the massive ventilators
in her right hand she held melancholy
and in her left hand a directionless threat
her hair spread limp on the greasy car park floor

clothed, cleaned, and sheltered
she still can't find her voice
but in recovery her eyes do the communication
that words and actions fail at

2 days later while knitting in my living room
3 crisp knocks land on my apartment door
4 o clock in the morning,
5 men unknown to me come busting in and demand various things
they set fire to my living room and cut my face with a broken bottle
i look up at the man with his boot on my chest
in his right hand he held a knife
and in his left hand he held his promise

when they leave i can barely crawl
the girl is dead on my kitchen floor
a box on the counter full of metaphors
stained by blood and alcohol