Dust, honey, bullets

To wipe the past three years clean with
one swish like dust on a carpet but
the bitter taste in my mouth weathers
all kinds of storms. See I am a woman
who can forgive anything except when
you turn on your axis and transform
into someone that I for the life of me
cannot recognise. It is easy enough to
forgive my condescension when I am
soft like fresh honey underneath but
your core has turned hard and the ants
in the neighbourhood have all been
informed. The thing is it is not his
business or her business the things
I do and why I do them and I have
razors stored in the linings of my coats
for when winter gets too cold and I will
lie and tell you that I lost control but
I have never ever lost control. I know
perfectly what I am doing but it is easy
to roam off the earth and make it look
like an accident. The neighbour shot
himself in the skull with a gun as he
cleaned it. You are always verbose in
telling me the way you dislike my
loopholes, my cop outs, but you are
the first to escape into Wonderland
and you know how this will cost you
but you do it anyway and maybe
next year you will be somewhere in
the USA and I will be in Montreal and
I will try to remember who you are as
I sit in the weak sun reading a book about
a lost life, a could have been, and I will
smile because you could say it is a bullet
that I dodged but the truth is that it has
been three years since I took the bullet
and I have not yet found an exit wound.