Did poor Alice hit her head or Is it the two walls within close quarters?

My cold fingers distinctly remember the wriggling cry of being feverish.

Nothing ever dies within me. 

When I occasionally dust off your objects from the storeroom of my heart. 

Only a crash beneath a stinging shower comes to help. 

My sister is mumbling mad in the attic.

This detached personality of my own aloofness is Bertha's legacy of petting black cats as excommunicated Eves.

Now when your hands are on my waist I think of fixing a hanging pot in my balcony with hammers. 

These are the sheets where I go claustrophobic when I cover my eyes.

Maybe last time two walls within close quarters were not enough for you to know that I am not afraid anymore. 

My mama says that two walls within close quarters squeeze you to death and no one ever finds you before they do. 

The leak of laughter from my lips these days reminds me of a leak from a grubby bathroom tap in a rented house. 

It never mattered, I mean the choke because you in my sheets looked funny. 

It was falling and falling and falling like sweet Alice until her fairy dream is a butchered head on a stone floor. 

Her death is an absolutely funny memoir for she believed in something that was the arms of a skeleton. 

So I meet you with a dead heart like a daughter meets with a fatherless father.

It's so much noise you know that the walls break before anyone squeezes me or finds me.