He poisoned her home.
Before, a place of warmth, love, security.
And now poisoned by the memory of what he did there.

And then he left.
He will return.
And he will torture her.

The scent remains.
I’ve washed the sheets.
I’ve cleaned the floor.
I’ve scrubbed my plates.
I’ve scrubbed my skin.

I force my skin to tolerate the extremes of temperature as I shower.
I force my blood to thin, so when I watch, it flows evenly.
I force my body to endure endless, enduring, excessive exertion.
I am disappointed that my daily purge does not act as an adequate antiseptic.

But, like the army of ants that continues to march on despite maximum casualties,
Like irreversible mould.
Like a stubborn stain.
Like the plague.
He will haunt her.

Food is tasteless.
Hunger is constant but never satiated.
Her bed no longer restful or safe.
Heat from the open fire barely touches her skin.
She is ice.

Through determination and self-sacrifice, successful eradication is imminent.


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