My Valentine

Tortuously,
I keep looking for something
that isn't there
right now, at least-
I feel strongly
compulsive. I still seek signs
first thing in the morning
like that one unforgettable
affair
uncovered by footprint,
a betrayal disguised
as an innocent amble
an estrangement you
desired irrisitably
and unregrettably.

Now that I have seen
deleted texts sent and received
more than dirty fingerprints,
this is DNA,
a wound
Spring inside the rib cage
re-tearing old wounds
the clicking like rage
in my ear

and I see how naturally
this discovery
reveals a new PTSD
in me-

a bomb exploded
my heart imploded
screams held back
my blood ran out

but I stayed, trembling at times
to face the enemy
closest-
when he
finally turns around
and notices me-

clutching a lit grenade
with the same gripping fear
that has kept me here
holding on
for too long.


Painting by John Collier (1850-1934), ;The fallen idol; c. 1913 in Public domain.

Forsaken, forsooth

Have you seen a secret? Someone  else's-specifically?

The way they fiddle with it in their pocket-It gets stuck between their

first and second molars, like poppy seeds, or opium and needs constant stroking

or protection by its caretaker who thinks-who believes-utterly, no one else can see;

the touching devotion, the precious obsession, the random gaze, sneaky smiles, daylight        
dreams late labored nights, off-kilter emotions,

or most simply the love of its keeper-buried deeper than they think any other can see.

Indulgence even has its limits.

Honesty was never a necessity for breathing easy.

Instinct can be turned down, or diverted to other carnal needs such as

survival of the keenest wills.

All the bile was meant to make you sick of yourself.

Betrayal, often thick and yellow in-consistency corrodes from the insides-
tastes like lies.

Love smothered with these dies in a shower of saliva’s acid rain. Kiss me...

for another's wish

for another

denied all this to me in sweet secrecy.

Painting by William Dyce [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.