am i a murderer?
i am guilty of the feigned ignorance of you,
you; the worn-in sweater.
i; stoop awkwardly in front of company with a paper towel
to wipe your blood from the kitchen floor because,
what the fuck else am i supposed to do?
your wine glass was in the sink,
please try to fill it
with something other than a comfortable love.
you deserve fireworks.