21 - Candlelit

Every little birthday is a bit of a nightmare.
I dust off the rotting wooden table for you,
You stare at me with scorn and sit right there,
And I burn the candle and lay plates pour deux.

You shake with fear when I hold the knife.
I point it at you, so you understand your place,
You understand that our engagement is rife
With all sorts of sin and disgrace.

The lights are outside now, their sirens too.
They shout through broken windows and mothbit drapes.
“You shut your fucking mouth” I snarl at you,
As you, with shaking lip, sit with mouth agape.

“Smile for me!” I growl, the dark makes it hard to see.
as you struggle to smile and ichor streams from your lip.
I didn’t mean to cut you, that I guarantee.
Or, I think I didn’t mean to, maybe I slipped.

I know you’re better now. I can see it on your skin.
Blood ichor wine, from a fleshy little grape
You taste sweeter than I knew, where do I begin-
Palette so rich - life’s flavour reshaped.

They’re here now, with their flashing lights and screams.
Did I play my part well - did I meet my mask persona?
It’s all quite numb now. Blood leaks from peppered jeans.
I think it’s dark now. Thanks to you, my Desdemona.