Scarlet Thread

A pitbull cannot growl as I can whenever he is near her.
Laughs too loud, words too eager, they muffle my mew
that I must shout, but the shriek unsheathed only shocks.
Reaps me little love but savage shame. What can I do to compete
with a boy who knows no scarcity in privilege or time? Damn my job,
curse the college, and woe to my muse who needles me with neediness,
demands devotion and sacrifice to a siren I can never touch,
never be, only dream to wake up with nothing as he wakes up beside her.

Alone in defeat, I recover my soul, reclaim my throne with a sacrifice,
dress the angel in chainmail, arm him with an ax, and erase Eden.
Turn my sight from her eyes to the craters speckled around her mouth,
spots peppered across her back. Up close, the Milky Way is rough terrain.
The words on which I dined I now pick for bugs and pox that spill
from piss-colored teeth chained by unkept metal wires until I gag
on every line she feeds me. Gather our treasures collected together
and burn them in the fire fueled by the specks and planks picked
from her eyes, mouth, fingers, and feet that follow anyone with meat (except me).
Then cast her into the flames for her witchery, for enchanting me.

My ethics my alibi for the crucifixion she faces for her sin
against me, an angel without heart, bird without wings, lost in the tailspin.

Critique

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