Secrets Don'T Make Friends And... Poem by Floyd Crenshaw

I
Am a fool. A
Continual improvisation of
Speaking without thought.
So long living a fantasy, an
idea of truth. A hollow head
A scheming man. The reformed infidel
I
Am the hypocrite
I feel the shame, raised one brow becoming
The requesting Spitzer. Instant remorse and shock.

No reflection. Bring the foil plague. It comes
Every so many years,
When life is good.
Losing the only one trusting near
The subconscious destructive self.
'Some times, things happen
I black out, but if
You
Please be kind
I
Will, too.'
Oh, what a chump
I
Turned to be.

The charge sounds unexpectedly.
I shot her In the shoulder.
Straight through the shoulder.
I am sorry, Love...
A dead thud. The silence after popping a down pillow
On the unsuspecting. Substantially less happiness though.

She dropped
To the ground, screaming.

I proclaim my innocence. Choosing imbibed ignorance
Over sober logic. The fault is mine.
I admit and desperately
Give her, propped up against a file cabinet, the gun.

A smile crept 'cross her face, a slight belly shudder. Her eyes shot up,
She shot up. Healthy.
'For a moment there I lost myself'
And was happy she was happy.
She held the gun like
A dictator in a parade.
A conductor to her symphony.
A child with a kite.
A temporarily insane woman waving a handgun
During her pre-revenge monologue.

Uncocking the pistol she caressed my face.
'I always liked your hair the best.'
'Huh? ' She began to beat my head with the pistol.

I expected some quiet time after this.

(momentary lapse of time)

Then she was above me, stitching my left cheek together. The gun went Straight through my cheek.

She kissed my forehead and told me
I forgive you.
'You look lovely, ' I gurgled as the bottom half part of
Cheek blocked my airway.

Finished sewing skin she heads to the kitchen. Her ring
Catches her hour long stitching. Unraveling like active vacuums
Near balls of string.
The further
She moves away
The further
I decay.
-
'Love should be trusting and free. This we did agree. Disrespected by you. Oh, how foolish could I be? I thought you really did love me.'

'But I do! I asked without intent, but still the idea remains the content. Instantaneous pain. I felt hollow. Regret sickened me and I ran to love you to no end.'

'I've heard that before. In not so many useless words, but I get the gist.
And no! ' Like the gun, again.

No searing pain, no puncture wound.
Just tears. Smeared, bloody tears.