Routine.

Like every morning he gets out of bed.
Toothbrush to jam shut the same yawning breath,
suit jacket masking a beast on his back.
Breakfast that's served to never be had.

He walks out the door,
to his car,
and that's that.
A body trained into ignoring the facts.

From nine until five open Monday through Sat.

Only this evil excuse for a man, he empties the
kitchen of his pots and his pans. He opens each
cupboard and seizes the cans, throws them
with hate at the wall where he stands. Empties
the fridge and then hurls it to match.

He watches them land, unfurling the colours
he'd nearly held back, smearing the blues and
the greys with his hands, clearing the clutter
with each messy track. From the claws
to the fur, the fangs white from cream;
Dead doppelgänger. The killer he'd been.

And skin slick with oil, thickened in fat,
he stands back and gags with the scene that he'd
mapped. Consumed by the thoughts of a desperate act,
undressing the shapes of the hell-sodden flat.

Shaking the wall with the pound of his fist,
he remembers your face and the way that you'd kissed.
He takes that same knife, presses it to his wrist,
plucking the moxy to justify this.

Summoning blood from the opening mark,
he buries it straight in the chest of his art.

Red dripping over the murderer's heart.

Like every morning,
                        [/i]it tears him apart.