edit

ahem.

With a martini shaker as a rattle and poison sleeping inside—
He draws his drugged and sorry prey to him.
Girls, already wounded and stumbling, in their stacked shoes
and constricted clothes: their skins being shed throughout
That drenched and wretched night, regretted.
His walk that was more like a slither,
like love between the legs; those shy eyelashes.
He was never wholly, only mine. He shared himself.
Ravenously, disappearing into nothing
but a girl's sordid story in the morning, always regretted.
He's a poor object, wanting only to be forgotten.
But he lives still, gliding alone in that filth,
As beautiful as he is dangerous.
This is the sonnet that my heart regrets.