Sad-ism

Sad-ism (31st January, 2009, 10.15pm)

Dry your tears on your arm.
The wetness burns your
naked sleeve;
this need to make you cry
has been growing inside
like a weed.

The night bleeds into stars,
pricks in the sky;
I see the light as the moisture
in your eyes reflects me.

It feeds; my conscience
twists like a knife in my breast:
I confess a fulfilment,
found in your distress.

Of course, a multitude
of lies lie at your feet;
revenge beats
inside my head, throbs
like a lover thrusts;
I imagined I knew you.

Unprecedented,
your utter defeat;
provocation sought
a friendly fist, met
a solid wall of straw
that I made wet.

Jennifer Pickup