The thing about a pike
that makes it doubly cruel
is the way its shaft can sway
when it’s blown by ridicule.
You ram a path from groin
to top of shattered peak.
You start a bloody chatter
between organs that couldn’t speak.
The rage that brought us here
began in our desire.
It was you atop the pole
and I who thrust you higher.
You run me through with guilt,
your pleasure streaked with black.
There’s a hollowness I feel
when I throw you on your back.
You run me through with words
that sting like sour wine
splashed on broken skin,
stripes across my spine.
You run me through with hope
in the piercing of your eyes.
Impale me with your blues,
the shafts of all your lies.
The life runs from my wound.
Let it dribble to the ground.
I wear your contempt
like thorns upon my crown.