No one’s perfect, but I feel worthless sometimes.
My crimes are not legal offenses but are enzymes
that define, divide, and decline my spine.
It’s cancer unbenign to see wine derived
from her water. But I would see it and still love her.
I would slaughter my inhibitions to be her lover;
to concur with her words, offer her what she prefers.
I would burr my feelings for others to spur my feelings for her.

For her, I would give her whatever she deserves. But how sad, how mad,
how bad is that? To make my heart clad
with false hopes and rash rushes isn’t a gladness.
It’s tempting sadness that accesses and addresses
my weaknesses. Weaknesses that slither and slide
like snakes in my eyes. So sweet are her dresses,
so seductive is her sight. She makes my mind
sad with sycophant sensations, and we turn to messes.