Author's Note: This is for Suzette's Blue, who is very, very patient, and whom I admire for that patience.
Exposition
My name is Suzette. I'm seventeen,
And I have blue eyes.
They're made of wood,
So I can't cry.
But I can see
Perfectly well.
I see secrets.
And I want to tell.
In this room, every night,
A blond man crawls underneath the bed's covers.
Master seems to like him.
I'm the only one that knows they're lovers.
I don't have a voice
So I can't speak
My mouth is made of maple
My vocal cords of teak.
So I keep their secret
Reflected in my lifeless eyes.
My ears hold echos
Of moans, of sobs, of sighs.
Development
Master thinks art is forever.
The blond man thinks art is short-lived.
Sometimes they quarrel about it.
Eventually, one of them gives.
One of them walks out the door, slamming it.
It's usually the blond man.
Master stays inside the room.
Smiling a smile that is blank and bland.
I know that lovers quarrel.
I know that lovers fight.
But do lovers argue with each other
Night after night after night?
Recapitulation
Master lies dying
On the sandy ground
He's spurting crimson
Onto the gritty brown.
Puppets can't hear, I know
But I lean forward to hear his words.
I want to know what he is saying.
But what he says is completely absurd.
"I'm sorry, Dei, I'm sorry."
An apology, that's it?
An apology to the blond man probably
The blond who didn't give a shit.
One last gasp
And Master's dead.
I'm left with echos in my ears
And his apology in my head.