I don’t, with intention, make
dancing with the devil my hobby
nor do I enjoy the many liquid hours of
heartfelt dissonance.
Strict
are my bonds and figures and curses
synthetic fibers that dig into palms
flakes and exfoliates to the hidden core
and I find you there:
all of you.
And your citadels of papier-mache are
shattering like light bulbs
their sprigs bursting in sockets
thoughts like peas rolling across the floor.
Redemption was its own bullet
before I learned to live with my lies
my amber guilt slopped into a weary shot glass
and I never meant to take that
offer from your hands;
I did it, though,
and am pardoned
postmortem.