From the outset,
my wrists were bound;
wrongfully arrested,
I’d plea bargain without cause,
seemingly without choice.

Craving sweet bitterness,
rocking you like a cocktail,
I would remove your top,
release my passion, and
devour you in instalments.

You, my daily medication,
the essential dose of rapture;
vital, addictive, immediate,
sped venom through my veins
that led to the heart of my despair.

Each hit delivering a mark;
I’d await side effects,
like your incredulity on waking,
interrogation from burning eyes
that scorched my cheek,
parched my tongue,
stung my eyes.

On a trip, through the ruins of your mind
where you’d once held mass,
I heard misquoted passages
echoing around the inclined victims
of those that preceded me.

The marks remain,
however concealed
as day by day
the soundless damage remains
leaving me deaf to reason,
yearning still.

© 2017, David Ratcliffe

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