You were never shoved into a corner.
You enjoyed watching them scratch their
Eyes out, over you, you gorging voyeur.
Did you ever feel their pain? The reality of it?
And how you caused it, orchestrated their demise?
You bragged with all their names, their love, their faith.
You all let them cook in an abandoned pot, where you destroy everything.
You exchanged them, tormented their minds, saw one, then the other.
You selected the ones with the most challenging heartache, the lowest self-esteem.
You swallowed their skins, caressed their bodies, gave them a temporary vision
Of what life could be like. That the sun could actually shine, but as you build
You annihilate. You grab each one of them by the head and whisper lies in their
Enamoured ears. Tell them what is right, not what is true.
And they absorb your scent, integrate it in their longing bodies, take you all in.
And you kick them where it hurts, they only feel your absence, your betrayal, gradually, until it seems too late to counteract.
“The Kiss” by Henry John Stock (1853-1930/1)
