The Man Who Kills You

The man who kills you will not be a stranger in the road.
He will come home at the end of a shift and
bring you flowers, will rub your feet
when the baby is thrashing. The man who
kills you will look almost exactly like the man
you loved, the man who said he loved you,
but in his eyes will be a new, distant thing,
a hard edge like a shape hovering in the night
and blotting out the starlight. The man who kills you will
wear a better mask than the man you love. The man who kills you
will raise the dead and make them dance.

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