Untitled Bed of Roses

It's not the word she uses
that flails the heart of me
It's not the way she means it
when she spits out the curse
It's more the look in her eyes
that hollow out the truth.
fifteen skittles and a broken toy
lay crushed by the door
like the fallen web of dusty time
that gather with decay.
fifteen bottles of broken green
shattered on the floor
like the crusty debt of ancient crime
that settle on dismay.
fifteen skittles and fifteen bottles
with three aces laid.