Fallen Deity

You were the altar, at which I lay myself down,
you were the deity dressed in
plated gold, rubies and jade,
that I prayed to for a striped
buoy to keep me afloat,
but I was merely your sacrificial lamb,
my throat slit by your actions,
my blood gushing forth like that of a hemophiliac,
telling of both the trifling occurrences—
a bed left unmade, a dish left unwashed,
a few words left unspoken,
the inconsequential love paraphernalia,
but also recounting the blistering wounds—
white, bulbous pus issuing from the abscess you
created with the ubiquitous “she” answering the phone,
“Don’t call him anymore,” she said,
and here, your presumed innocence
wavered like sails on a mast,
and the god of you plummeted from
the altar I placed you upon,
and your descent was furthered by
stray, blond hairs on the pillow,
Chanel No. 5 on your white linen shirt,
recalling the scent of a bitch in heat,
and the branding words:
“You are nothing without me,”
burned into my ashen skin,
this mark you pompously thought
solidified my status as your livestock,
and you as my master,
but you never realized, you scoundrel,
that your peace offerings of—
moist Nutella cake, handmade glittering jewelry,
meals of curry and coconut milk chicken,
and travels to lands filled with sand
as soft as the underside of my arm,
would never be sufficient to keep me,
so now the shutter of your camera
has exposed one final photograph—
my brown, leather suitcase
patiently waiting near our blood red door.