Flipped

She laid there, eyes too blue,
To see through; classic 3D glasses smudged with ketchup from a hotdog.
They seemed more blue than when I moved in, to the gingerbread house on the spring afternoon, fumbling boxes of photo albums and wishing I hadn’t.

She laid there sinking into the ground, knuckles red raw as she cursed me. 
It’s hard carrying bags of bricks on back,
In a society where the devil is male, 
Yet now the dagger had flipped downward, the deed done, 
the consequences branded,
On my white pillow, seem to seem.

She laid there dead, the life-blood oozed,
But it wasn’t over;
flashes of morning news, cold steel bars,
Porridge breakfasts and camera crews
when the guilt you craft nibbles at flesh, bone.
Wherever and whenever and whatever,       I live a life  sentence forged upon tablets of stone.

I lay here with my belt-scars facing down, I brandish a weapon, knife and gown 
My eyes, they hate, my limbs hang weak, 
Down the road to Jerusalem, 
Where the gold-tipped basket sleep,
And it seems since I stepped foot on the dead, 
my hands and my shirt are caked with red, 
for what I have done we will all pay brothers, 
The “Shroud” of suicide is all that covers.