I know you are here by
the crack
of your palm on
my cheek,
by the sting of
our sweat.
The second slap tugs at
my skin
with the stick of
the gin.
You scream through
the heat,
above the ambient rumble
of souls,
the unholy truth of
it all
spat with the cadence
of hate.
The cackled delights of
the night
and this pitiless death in
the streets.
The horror of your bones on
my bones.
I can still hear the muffled
bass beat
and the staircase-crashing
of feet
as you carve the word 'shame' in
my skin.
There is hope in
your hate
as you cry out
my crimes.
There is hope in
my pain
as old futures implode, and
this life
is replaced by something
quite new.
It was actually *****, but that doesn't rhyme with 'skin', so...
