My wrists were extended for you.
    Thrust out,
         cocked back,
      exposing the dirty, pale flesh
                and the indigo branched giving veins.
   Doing your bidding 
     like an obedient young lad,
        afraid down deep that he will be punished,
     sent to the tower without dinner,
            without the promise of the morning sun.
     Such a spell was cast over me.
   Wherever did you attain your charms?
       That talent you possess of being
                vile and delicious
              depraved and defensible
           repulsive and sympathetic
     all at one time?
        You never gave any thought
   to the world past the end of your nose,
      a world populated by
            flesh and blood human beings,
       fighting to break out of the stone cocoons
                   you so cunningly encased them in.
         The better to step on you with, my dear.    
   What is the fear that drives you, darlin’?
        The fear of the hump on your back,
    constantly bloating from the puss of your sins?
          The fear of the ghosts that haunt your dreams,
       reminding you that emotion is not a luxury?
    I am driven by an acute phobia of you
        and your strange power over me. 
Morals were an afterthought,
          under your command.
    Lives were expendable.
       Including mine,
                 so it seems.
   Now I am little more than a specter
        in your troubled sleep,
  made of dust and regret,
      just one in a small choir
           of  carrion
       left in your wake,
   comforted only by the fact that, despite everything,
         you never got what you wanted most,
   what I myself was sacrificed for.




  


    

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