I

I.

Marriage in its misconception
Would not have crossed my consciousness
Had I never been asked.
And now it crosses my arms as rusty razor blades
And how the blood flows like kisses once so freely
And every mouth ever crossing mine since
Is like a slap across the face
Faces blurred with alcohol and age
Except the ones I loved
Which haunt me now as souls arise in the fog of unrelinquished grief
You said once that if love was the dagger than you were the wound
I want the knife as well as the laceration
But you are not a possession
A thing to be boxed
A thing to be bound
Even by my bated breath which could not hold you
Were you a wisp of smoke or mountain air
And me with my blood crossed arms
Am simply your corrupted courtesan
A product of your barricade so scientifically made
Outside your wall of scorn I realize
That all we would ever do is play house.
I think I’ll stick to my toys.