Unguided Red-Light Obtrusion
By E.L. Winston

pivoting in a circular motion
I resist the urge to stand in the middle of a crisis
and scream down your amused craw
The words that have been churning
behind the curtains of the stage in my brain
the cavity like a split open orange after being peeled
spilling its salty citrus scented blood
down into the depths of your proclivity towards life
and every subjugated influence you have ever stolen as your own
as if you were the sole creator
who mastered the art of a perfected embryo
that grew as you were stunted,
and became every shade of the color spectrum
while you sat in a matte mix of sullen neon yellow apathy
staining the bloated crevices of your face
until each breath you took accumulated the pure scent of death
albeit, from an impure mouth,
the only pure thing that ever let me receive
the scent all humans cannot allude or delude,
the scent I cannot escape as you gust the wind off your tongue
into the mail slot in the front door
one day you will come for me, at the most crucial moment in my existence
you will grab my wrist and twist it
so that I may manufacture a bandage of promise
to wrap over and around the split scarlet skin
a promise to never forget what it is you fathomed yourself into
and never to become skilled
at the mistakes you learned from the forefathers of your bloodline
I saw you shadowed at the corner of Bon Aire Avenue and Park Street
your face shaved of skin, muscle face without nose
breasts soaked in rain drops made of acid
after all is said and done my voice
will dissolve in your electronic machine
and become numbered behind all the calls of your johns
maybe I over estimated who you would be in the end
maybe I lost my sense of self in your honey eyes
glistening red in the light of streetlamps
red turning into black as the night clouds shift
over the moon
and I stand over you now
at your wake in the church you and I never stepped foot in
careless were you in recreation
now I know it was you who lost all sense of untitled self
gazing into my eyes to find something
that would give you a sense of repercussion for what was to come
It is much to wonder on what your expectations were
I am neither soothsayer nor fortune teller
there are no tarot readings for you locked away inside my eyes
little good it would do you now, even after the events
every time you walk by me
It is like being in the front of a church alter
staring down at you in a steel coffin,
taken in by a mystical hold at an everlasting wake.

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