Worn Out Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

You are a wuthering height, young, bright face
And if you were a prying flower – you’d be a bud,
A scented death, a bottomless pit, a crying child,
A pole-vaulting thief of bliss and other things
You are a petty disguised angel of contorted sadness,
In you, everything will sink into the depths of your
Anatomically bruised yet wonderful skin
-
You are a vulterine woman, you possess the lewd kindness
Of the moon in the night of one’s execution – alas, you are
The executrix, the dominatrix – everything that spells death,
That will be you; You are a sordid fancy, a squalid lushness,
A frowning grin, a burning heaven – dear God, may the heavens
Forbid you
-
You are a starless sky, a barren azure,
A bludgeoning sty, a broken disclosure
Among the dreams and the sleeping – you come in,
With your hands towering, you make everything appear so
Small and puny – I pray to God that when I meet you,
I am strong enough – I have met you a lot of times,
And have died with the same frequency of our acquaintances.
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Sometimes, the mere sound of your name makes me quiver
I whittle a smile in the clouds so I would be reminded that I am a reservoir
Of postponed sprightly dreams – but then, she will come,
And hold a dagger – a gun, and hold me at gunpoint,
And there, with sinister discernment, I am dead in her arms,
Though she refused to catch me in flight whilst she tossed me:
A trajectory hapless being –
-
I shout, I wail, I despair for help, but then all the people
Are busy with their wonderful lives, while I am busy
Talking to a beautiful fan of knives – Look, as she is writhing
And perhaps reading this note, she is smiling as if coy with her success
Of destroying me, and burying me deep within her senses,
I am frowned by the heavens and deprived of all defenses.