we meet
a second time.

you were
like
a savage beast, tossing
and turning
within
your cage.

the cage you made for yourself.

you
put on
a show,
letting me
survey
 your prison
with pride
and something
else.

a dining
table
set
for one;
cold walls
to bind
and mock
those
they encompass;
portraits
of empty,
bleak
incompetent phrases;
and
windows
with only
a vision
of black feathers
and
beady eyes
and chains
where a man
once lay.

here
is the
kitchen
of knives
and boiling
pain
and anxiety.

i assure you
that
there is
nothing
for me here.

and still,
you
insist,
showing me
to
the bed
upon which
you
make love
to your guilt,
the echoes
of drama
and suffering
still
ringing
in our ears,

trapped.
i cannot help
but feel
almost...

... jealous?...
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