If I breathe on a window and write my name in the mist, it looks backwards from the other side; everything looks backwards. Draw a halo around my face, so I look outwardly divine; the fogged glass clouding, ghosting the grimace into a smile. A crying angel; my morals dashed and destitute shattered remains lie on the pain, cutting. Deep. In. If I try to crawl through the window. All hope left with you, packed in your suit case and pulled through the door, a pathetic squeak from the wheels and another from me. Draw on horns now, two sharpened points of will and malice, ready to rip, rendering flesh to fulfil vengeance. It's not a grimace, it's a grin; teeth bared and pleased to see you, comfort to conflict, presence to pursuit, and I'm pleased. Alchemy. My breath into images and loss into life, with this knife; a sharp blade to fade promises made, nights and days spent and children heaven sent, into hot steam; passion into passing, vice to vendetta, draw a palm swiftly over the glass so it is a clear view to freedom; I don't need you anymore. Now I need your tears.
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