Our mirrors aren't mirrors anymore. We look in and see four dimensions -
Concrete dust in the distance, smog dragons sharpening teeth on jagged buildings
Rivers of feet rushing over rubble, rubber shoes slapping ceramic,
And mouths, open mouths,
Mostly crimson, but
Sometimes
Black.

I keep plants prisoner in the bathroom.
You took away our bed; the mattress lies in disarray over the carpet
Our minds can't settle on what the railings promise, nor comfortably within these comforting walls.
Once in a while, though, they do calm down, unwillingly,
Like underneath our duna, where the ghosts we don't have names to mourn for wrap their legs and tongues around us.
Like in the shower, where instead of warm water
We bathe in sheets of ghostly hair.

You took away the windchimes I hung over the window, said -
Let's not be superstitious.
Then why
Did you leave the dreamcatchers?

On Sundays, we spend hours holding hands, just to make sure our hands are still that -
Hands.
Not hooks nor knives nor triggers nor hammers
Formaldehyde deceives us, there is clinical dirt clogging the sweat glands on my palms
And a colony of earthworms had, at some stage, found home under your nails

At night, we fit into each other,
Defending against the glass-eyed creatures on two legs, on four
And wait,
For the alarm to sentence us.