he keeps the keys / cycle of life

he keeps the keys:

he doesn't believe in ghosts—
why he keeps his blade beneath his pillow
or stashes a fully packed emergency kit
is his business, thank you very much

and while he averts his eyes in front of the attic door
or places fresh purple lilies near his mother's rocking chair
weekly, it's because the sight of them wilted is unpleasing
that's nothing more than old habit

and when he smirks as she questions his bandaged hands
or hides as she twirls the extra, mysterious key
the crossed fingers sting behind his back
but he'd do anything to keep her smiling at him

cycle of life:

the last of the sticky residue clung to her finger
prints, laid in front of her from beginning to end
the first more bright and colored than the rest
in a descending spiral too familiar with hope

her mistakes spread out in front of her
the last attempts ripped into a form unrecognizable
the first few only slightly marred
with no glue, no salve, no cure

her bandaged hands ached to inch closer but
the serrated edges of the paper provided the warning
she too long had not heeded,

in time her bleeding will become mere stinging
her broken heart full and pumping
and the cycle of ruination will begin again