A ventriloquist with your voice down pat festers inside. My heels are machine guns covering my retreat. The house looms large. I search the rooms for some truce banner. They too have been bloodied by this uncivil war, fought with one who strikes too well.
Long practice grooves the aim.
I struggle with self pity, a soldier naked on a cold dark field. What can I do but wash in sullen tears and somehow try to gather the tattered blanket of sleep.