In cold ninety-four
he stood as an emblem.
An old belle de jour
in young woman’s harem.
Collision of truths
with deception to spare.
Division of youths
with exceptional flair.
His eyes captivated (as eyes often do).
But lies separated (as lies often do).
And the words and the drugs…
they drowned out our laughter…
Though he still exists in the shrugs of disaster.
He certainly hates
the women he loved.
He treats them like shit.
He hates them because…
because they are women
who don’t hate themselves
so he can’t relate…
so he can’t compel them
to stay as confused as he was on his drugs.
He paints himself victim
and that is not love.
Written by Jason Wright
November 11, 2019
