Kept within the white picket slats
              of my garden,
     your scent would carry for miles,
  calling me home to you.
I tended to you
        with a feverish excitement
   because that is what I knew best.
 The wind has changed now.
        Weeds have sprouted 
               so near to you
        that they begin to mimic you
  and you them
       so that it becomes impossible to tell
  which to root out.
The anger which gurgles
      in the pit of my stomach
   will no longer be made compost.
 Rather it seems manufactured to scorch-
       burn out all that’s unwanted with acid.
  I can hurt you so badly
      torture you so steadily
   only because I love you so deeply.
You know that, don’t you?
    I have never at once felt so determined
  and so confused.
       I am left to feed on my own meat,
  consume myself, 
       because I can no longer rely
   on your sweet touch for sustenance.
It’s amazing the torrent of thoughts
      that will rain down
             upon your chest
    when you are faced with the reality
           of the deeds you have done.
  The angels and the demons
       who traipse about on your weighted shoulders
 piercing the dead air with white noise.
So many things to consider
     for such a simple series of muscular movements.
  And yet, above everything else,
        pulsing like struggling heartbeat,
  shrieking like a vengeful banshee,
        three words seize my mind,
 constricting my throat as if in retaliation:
       YOU WERE WRONG.



  


    

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