Those who wanted to wound me wounded you,
and the dose of secret poison meant for me
like a net passes through my work-but leaves
its smear of rust and sleeplessness on you.
I don’t want the hate that sabotaged me, Love,
to shadow your forehead’s flowering moon;
I don’t want some stupid random rancor
to drop its crown of knives onto your dream.
Bitter footsteps follow me;
a hideous grimace mocks my smile; envy spits
a curse, guffaws, gnashes its teeth where I sing.
And that, Love, is the shadow life has given me:
an empty suit of clothes that chases me,
limping, like a scarecrow with a bloody grin.