Cassandra Atherton
Butcher
If I’d known, I would have taken my time, moved like a shadow in your periphery. If I’d realised, I would have drawn it out, like a large charcoal sketch on butcher’s paper. But I sliced through the days like a reaper, anatomising my heart against the backdrop of your sticky words. I recorded our story, until my tightly spun narrative overwrote your desire. Now you tell me I occupy too much of your sight; the centre of your eye is fatigued. In the space between breaths, I imagine my ribs are an empty cage and take two steps back.