The hate between men
in view of a prize -
the bitterness of their hearts, then.

Two wolves circle a fawn,
a trophy - the eyes.
A hush in the forest at dawn.

The fortune and the glory,
the blood spilled, the ecstasy -
to be laureled in a light
of gold.

Bridges we once danced on
over waters we thought would drown us.

Photographs of friends
who have since become ghosts.

Candles that remind us
of our sweetest memories.

Oh, and toast.

I am not what you expected
when you went searching for answers.
I too come with a question:
what is the use?

When you're holding my heart
can you feel the cancer?
When you kiss my lips
can you taste the abuse?

And do you want to hold me?
Do you want to touch me?
Do you really believe you've got what it takes?
Do you think you can control me?
Do you think you can love me?
How long will you last before your heart breaks?

Crying, she locked herself
in her room,
boarded up her window.
She laid down.
I didn't know what I'd done
when I asked about her old lover.
It was casual,
but maybe that was the problem.

Hours turned to weeks.
Her parents brought her
all she asked for.
Wood.
Nails.
Paint.
All she needed.
She didn't leave.

You could hear the anguish,
the hammer,
her feet pacing,
her knees drop to the floor.
You could taste the tears,
the sweat, her blood.

I called to her, ashamed.
Worried.
I drove my fists through the wall.
I drove my car to city limits.
I drove myself to the edge.
I sat in the hall.

When finally the door opened,
she looked mad, accomplished.
No more tears,
just red and black paint
smeared across her eyes.
I reached to her
with broken hands.
She handed me what she'd built -
wood nailed to wood,
crudely cut and shaped,
splintered,
dripping red and black
paint and pitch -
her heart.

Before moving,
I left my apartment spotless -
no soap **** in the tub,
no hairs or crumbs in the carpet,
not even the linoleum had a scratch or scuff -
spotless, I can assure you.
Yet, I got a letter from my landlord
stating that my security deposit was being withheld.
O, the injustice!
O, the villainy!
Four-hundred dollars, that swine!
That crooked-nosed knave!
If this were 14th century feudalist Europe,
when men still had a fighting chance, mind you,
I would have half a mind to
drag his very name through each tavern and inn,
through the street muck,
don my longsword,
dress my horse,
ride through the dawn,
into the walls of his squalid garrison,
lay waste to his livestock,
enslave his first-begotten,
canoodle his wife,
torch his hens and roosters,
shave him bald,
form a rope with his filthy hair,
tie it to his filthy ankle,
and yank him along
from the back of my horse,
spitting in the eyes
of those who dare oppose me!
Nay, who oppose justice!

But, alas,
I merely read the notice letter and sighed.