Two Hearts by Morgan Parks

I think of the toolbox as your gift, my love. Valentine red and so handy.
Stop the hearse, that’s the plan.
At first, I consider the tacks left over from Great Auntie’s upholstery. On second thoughts, leave them rattling under hammer and chisels.
For they chose a church, with a concealing curtain and old hymnbooks for tinder.
The crowd is murmuring in the pews. I wait for the whisper of your arrival, my dear, before lighting Uncle’s blowtorch. Pristine, it was wasted on him. Smoke and panic billow out to the gravestones, successfully draw your black-suited guards away.
Keys in the ignition, the engine starts first time, unlike the tincan Dad left me. And it goes fast, once I work out the gears, skid around some corners. Undignified, my love, yet practical.
Now we’re peaceful in the closed garage. Lockups all quiet on a weekday, though they won’t take long to trail us.
A crawl over wreaths to inspect your coffin, flowers from unimportant people, not a red rose among them. Grandpa’s vintage screwdriver, polished steel and wooden handle, is perfect for these shiny screws. He kept all his tools nicely, no one else appreciated them.
You are so beautiful, even under the heavy makeup. I didn’t plan to bruise your face, my love, but you turned your head at the last second.
Mum’s kitchen scissors snag on the white silk, take it slowly. I’m saving my knife for last. The new knife to sever skin and slice past ribs.
Embalming fluid is a strange perfume, my love, stronger than crushed lilies.
At last I hold it in my hand, your stiff cold heart. I wipe the blade carefully, ignore shouts and slammed car doors outside.
Now I turn the knife towards myself. To give you mine.

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