People like to kill you. They do. They weld their knives from questions, sheafed without answers, sharpened with each new rendition. It strangles your daylight.
You lie on the bed, half-bleeding and the moon comes. He leans down with a sickly face back from exile, wrinkles crinkling his shadowed, time-dashed cheeks. They are like the marks- 1, 2, 3, 4 and a slash through the middle, counting what you think is time. Solitary silence: he reeks of this and it scares you. He will come again, by the window though you pulled your woollen curtains shut and padlocked them with nightmares.
Sometimes you like him here though; raping your mind and driving a sleep pounding with unanswered sentences away.