Argument: started on the 13th finished on the 2nd.

The words could not be found, they had fled inside dark hollows, and  over corrected vowels; where overlong forced pauses stalled in trash inorganic light. The toils of the day. Neatly stacked and burdened. Squalls of piled up pills and bottles in long all -alone- again long nights.

But it was no good for he had come. Her new editor, the one who night and day, wore his rank pinned superiorly,high beneath fat full cheeks and unheard of, undocumented places almost ruddy beneath yellowish skin. At first she had tried to dance around him, move within his sealed off emotions and weak-hard walls; until every day he ached further through her, entering tight over her right lower hip; the one that had been through the war and nearly smashed.

Point first. Sharp up. As pious and derisory as a tack. He went in, puffing and bluffing the world along in all the spaces where he lacked, and her? Lines crossed. Things interred. Autonomy breeched. - Compliant, ever moulding, papering over, filling up the cracks;  maid servant clean up service by default; until, she had no other choice but to move him in, along with the rest of all the muddles, stored up inside her one good hip/leg. But then one day- something changed- he wanted more, or at least  the comfort of a last good bye. and as some thing of a shock to her, to her surprise, she held her ground and looked him straight between  his fat full cheeks and lofty eye, and said (outloud) no sir, I'm afraid  this time, I will not stand on ceremony, for it is you who must be the one to die. MB