Prone.
You're half covered and all exposed.
Gash, bright in your head,
Splayed, out on that bed,
Shattered helm, seeping red.
A cloying, stifling smell.
White bone, obscene under your pale face.
It made me feel dirty, somehow.
Like seeing you without your clothes,
Or seeing a woman without makeup,
After months of buying her face.
I suppose we're all whores underneath.
The dark fingers have put out your eyes,
The dark hands have closed over your throat,
But they weren't mine.
Never mine.
I never touched you.
I just sat and sipped my drink,
I suppose I didn't think about what would happen next.
But now it is done.
You are done.
And I'm left with the shell, your discarded clothes,
as you escaped free and clear into the night.
Damn.
Damn those dark fingers, those dark hands.
His dark body drove out your light.
And now you're such a sight, tonight.
Comatose and prone.
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