Carrie

The trees are whipping in the wind.
She’s being blown away,
struggling to hang on to ghosts,
screaming out his name.
He never even tried
to survive his inhibitions.
He only ever took to the breeze,
released the ghosts and died.

What a sigh, a grin, he looks at her oddly, head cocked to the side.
”Black eyes don’t suit you”, he envisioned, “yeah, keep them blue.”
Striking was the way he struck her emotionless in stride.
”You look good in purple”, he said.

Swollen eye shadow won’t wash off, as evidence, a pledge.
No one’s going to run to you unless you call them, Carrie.
Help is not forth-coming, you need to take him to the edge.

The storm is not about to ebb.
The stigma cuts are deep,
surfacing in beansidhe screams,
screaming out his name.
He has earned damnation
in his struggle to dominate.
her cries are indistinguishably
lament or elation.

To say she wasn’t searching for some outsider understanding
would be only half truth. Inference be gathered that her bruises are her proof.
Understand his presence was a little too commanding.
Sleep easy, Carrie, it’s been years.

Swollen eyes returned won’t dry off, as innocence, a pledge.
No one’s going to remember unless you call them, Carrie.
Help was not forth-coming, so you took him to the edge.

Is there another storm this year?
To the month? The day?
Can you see below you, now?
See to the bottom?
Your scream carries, wind whipped
to the other side, beyond life.
It was years and years ago, Carrie.

(Perhaps he only slipped.)