‘Close the door,’ she said and
moved further in the dark.
‘I don’t like the light,
I hate the bright.’ She said
and she started crying.

He said nothing,
entered the room and
kept away from the stench.
Cheap vodka and sweat,
an insinuation of urine
in the back.

‘Not drunk,’ she fabled ghostly,
her eyes barely moving.
‘Just me,’
Just, I echoed her tone
desperately.
A chorus of fear.

Rackets dancing in
a horrendous plant of
boneless souls.
The tears silent ballet
a dramatic choreography.
A waltz of dread.

‘Not drunk,’ she whispered again,
‘not drunk.’
And the smell of
cheap vodka and sweat
drawn him into limitless misery.
The chain of lies.
Again!