Perhaps they were the coldest days:
Empty fingers turning purple as
An icy moon watched my
Lonely breath leave my mouth.

Her only concession to winter was
A scarf worn over her mouth,
Like a teenage outlaw defying
The prefects’ authority over
The door by the long steps.

Of all the arrows I gave Cupid
To fire, perhaps hers was the one
That hurt the most; but
Then again, I long ago lost track
Of the injuries that weapon dealt
In my unspeakable name.

Regardless of the circumstances I try
To blame, I should have known better;
I should have thought before acting.
Instead, I made her a casualty of
My one man offensive against
Girls who committed the heinous crime
Of not being interested.

All I have to show for that is
A soulful of guilt, but that seems
Hardly a fitting punishment:
I continue to get off lightly
Compared with my victims.

Perhaps there will never be enough,
And I will spend the rest of my days
Trying to hurt myself enough
To make everyone better.

11/20/2018

Posted on 12/02/2018
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