Meeting your gaze with a frigid glare.
Studying leisurely, creases in your forehead
when you're frowning, almost sadly.
Slowly taking in your deep brown eyes.
You aren't going anywhere, I have time.
Gradually taking in the scar
above your right eye.
Do you remember in your opiate disarray,
turning disoriented, blood pouring,
from an edging along the paneled walls.
You had walked past it for thirty years.
Perfected shades of brown hues hide it well.
Complexion almost clear, natural tan color
mixed with the tones of powder make up
hides the scar beside your nose, chicken pox.
You are half smiling at me with full lips
painted deep crimson, reminding me of blood.
Some would say you are pretty, not I.
Feeling intoxicated from the fumes,
of gasoline, I stand back from the reflector.
There is no surprise in your dark eyes
as I ignite the oil soaked, saturated rag
and hurl my homemade bomb toward you.
My Molotov Cocktail seems to move
in slow motion, anticipation like a movie,
until the silence is filled with shattering glass.
Roaring sound of breaking, flames engulf
the antique chiffonier, mirror no longer held up.
Chocking from the stench and vapors,
I realize the entire room is ablaze.
Frozen in the moment, knowing if I escape
the fire, somewhere I will catch a glimpse of you.
On impulse, I grab a piece of broken glass,
slashing a jagged line alongside a healed mark.
Lying down on the carpet, I feel the heat.
Hot from the out of control burning room.
Yet I feel the cold, the chill of death holding me.
@ donetta sifford 3-24-2013