The
Martyr
A fine song looped from the corner of the
room. From the bed I settled on my back and extended my arms
and legs until muscles curved like tourniquets over bone. I
half-dreamed the melody, the words in certain combination with the
medicine. This song can do nothing but make its lyrical circle
above me, weather from yesterday or before.
Scented candles
she left on the headboard, busted melon and spoiled apple pie, make
for me a headpiece, the wax puddles inches from my brow. I
remembered the last time she was here, sitting with her jogging pants
down in the bathroom while I asked questions and questions.
Still comfortable enough to leave the door open.
And the
song. The song is just a song, only black noise that if played
backwards would reveal the sounds of our last night, a half-nightmare
clash of lost heat and fast blood circling the room in search of its
split apart other half. In search of someone who might wash
their hands of this, who might cut again through my back and pull
loose my guts to soak them in cool water.
Bio:
Sheldon Lee Compton
survives in Kentucky. His work can be found in more than sixty
journals including Staccato
Fiction, Pank, Monkeybicycle
and Dogzplot.
He writes and interviews and all that at bentcountry.blogspot.com.