from the slice of window in the wall
you smirk and raise
one hulking caterpillar eyebrow, tweaked
and plucked too neat
you used my tweezers, I know, I found
two hairs, crossed and thick
firm as mountains and peaked.
you raise your eyebrow, your lip
and say those used-up-as-yellow-sock words:
“Come to bed.”
let me screw your thoughts, your head.
your voice grates like cricket song outside
and your skin
pulled thin across your jaw and your
eyebrow and your
black, black as well water black
pupil in your eye
reminds me of all I can’t love about you anymore.
as I follow you upstairs
dodging toys and split crayons on the floor
pouts and sprouts whiskers
adding to the list of everything
I want to pluck
stick, bend, beat, break.
When you’re finished whisper-stabbing
my name in my ear
I will crawl
past the mirror, a rectangle scar in the wall
I will creep to where the children
their mouths open in their sleep.
Erica McKeen is a Canadian writer of fiction, poetry, and experimental works based in London, Ontario. She has recently ditched the university life to focus on her writing and the betterment of her mental health. She has a particular interest, in both her reading and writing, in the topics of feminism, insanity, and horror. Her fiction and poetry have been published in The Quilliad, This Dark Matter, Nom de Plume, and issues four and five of Occasus. Visit her blog on mental illness and living the creative life at www.ambertypewriter.wordpress.com