This ancient crime scene
bears the bland drape of its neglect,
its affects—having been trundled about
for years, as if without forethought—no
longer leaving cleaner contours
of themselves etched in the plaster.
The bright blood slashed from your whetted heart
has now become a splattered, dull visage, encrusted
beyond analysis. You still wear the makeshift
tourniquet that shored your darkening flow,
and stay on here, curating vintage figurines
with gaping, glass eyes.