*Inspired by Londengrey's "red, marble, bloom" thread-*
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Just Making Pie
I was rolling the dough for pie,
push-pulling the cold marble.
It was particularly heavy;
I had filled it with water and frozen it.
It helps keep it from sticking.
He came, shouting, threatening.
I had not hung his shirt properly.
He slapped me.
My cheek stung with heat and humiliation.
His hands went to my neck
and my eyes ached from his choke.
I grabbed the counter behind me, desperately searching,
when my fingers fell upon the pin.
I just wanted his hands to go away.
It came down harder than I imagined,
aided so by gravity.
It sounded like the crash of a bowling ball.
Red, red -running and pooling beneath him.
In this garden of blood,
now I can begin to bloom.