Here’s the thing: we’re
through, me and you; we’re
done. Stunned? And well you
might be. See, a tree is only as
broad as its branches, a tourniquet
as useful as the wound that it
stanches. And you are neither, not one.
So we’re done. Have fun!
I put them in baskets set aside for
the winter, a wine so malign it
betrays its own vintner. And when
my eyes opened and witnessed
new light, how desperate you were
to chain me to night. And how you
delight in making me squirm, in
stealing my pudding and feeding me worms.
You promise high heaven and then
slam the gate; make off with the key while
I stand and wait, cold and alone, trampled
by rain, a chill you’ve told me is for my own gain.
And yet, there you are, happy and warm,
inside with your cocoa, while I drown in the storm…