Pinefresh,

the stringent, nose-bleeding scent –

from the green little tree hanging from her rear-view,

to the pitter-pattering against the glass and

spring’s needles, spattering against

my hide,

raw from a day’s

slaving

for “his” sake –

Or so thought dictates,

when I see the man in the mirror.

The mirror, where reflections become reality,

and what was reality is already history.

I am lost already

amongst the multitudes of them

off in the future’s misty depths, and

etched into the grooves of memory’s epitaph.

Should I call out?

And, from that dark place, will

I answer… or another one of “he?”

I can feel it, my

skin is tattered and ripped,

ripped precisely to mirror the leather strips,

strips to her whip

Ambition

Whose each lick,

wordlessly threatens to turn me to stone.

But this is too important.

So every time, I find the need to take the sledge to

whatever shell, whatever the hell

might dare to form and

drown my fears, my tears

in seawater.

Yet I realize these iron hooks and shards,

are not her instruments, but rather consequences –

anchors,

holding fast penance’s ship in

my sea of sin

Penance,

for m̶y̶ his mistakes –

I can hear them,

like Sirens, do they sing.

But if he is not I, then

who must take responsibility?