words

your heart is drawn in blood and drink,
a novel of idiocy,
some antic mutant of yourself.

the years between us,
i thought you purged
from the ledger in my head;
your very presence is tremulant
with lunacy and old regret,
what a mess you’ve become.

departed girl,
your youth has gone on
and here now a woman
with dead eyes and pale skin,
a heart that beats slow and with great fear,
is this how you thought it would be?

this moral leprosy has stolen you
from sanctuary;
this way is sovereign
and you must go elsewhere
and bother other, less broken men.

-S.C. Martinez