I gave the voices your tongue to hear their words in the voice of another. How differently I hate myself when the recital of criticism takes on a separate tone. The ex-plosives are missed as your snipes detonate in an uglier timbre. The richness of that trill is taken as an ever renewing esteem tithe, gradually depreciating my self-belief’s valuations so the bare bones can be given back to the earth cost free. Would the words you made me delete have made any difference? They’ll greet me when I finally give into the bitterness and momentarily regret all I hadn’t the chance to regret before.
The exclusive rights to grief were taken:
Shouted from lips that could never be kind,
Painted on a face that had never seen,
Twisted in the belief of false guiltlessness,
And pointed at the remaining husk of me.
The cold iron gates stood heavy in judgement,
Separated the self-righteous from the sinner.
The one heart that beat love to both sides,
A heart once so swollen and overflown
That it willed there to be a second pulse,
Had burst its banks and bled out silently.
Emptiness is the disease that devours joy,
Turning time into a weapon of contagion
Until we're all wasted and spent in heaps
Of decaying flesh and worthless broken bones.
A death lived and re-lived in cyclical attack,
Feeding on the casualties that too have fallen
Into the welcoming arms of temptations Union.
When those gates sighed their disapproval
How sweet was that call to be swallowed whole
By the ravishing teeth of an irreversible vice
And no longer be blamed by that judgement.