Sparks erupted from eye sockets as you set my bones ablaze. A pile of ribs and spine and femurs to fuel your bonfire. A sachet of herbs laid within my mouth sent a sweet scent rising into the darkening evening alongside the building flames. A call to crawl forth from among the bones of the earth.

When you found me at the flea market, you had on one of those ridiculous shoulder-mounted cameras. You probably uploaded your little cheap-market excursions online. Showing off your savviness. Your cleverness.

From my package, you read aloud, “Comes with knives.” Then you flipped me over, looking for the disclosed knives. “Hey, this one’s missing pieces,” you continued to the proprietor. “Can I get a discount?”

In the guise of your front door, I awaited your return home.

For weeks, I’d lurked there. You’d turned my limb shaped like your doorknob, not noticing the slight give to the bronze. You’d hung your Christmas wreath on the red door of my tongue, missing my fetid breath.

You’d missed my eye watching you from within the peephole.

Scorch marks and the shattered shells of holy water grenades littered the floor around us where you’d finally fallen. You lay cradled in my arms, your pulse…questionable. You’d lost your crusade.

I’d won. But I wished I hadn’t. Not yet.

Dusk comes earlier and earlier these days. Used to, the kids could play outside until almost 1 PM, but now they start trooping indoors at around 12:30. Another sixteen hours until daylight returns.

The cemetery hasn’t had a volunteer headstone cleaner in a long time, so I’m surprised to see you.