He shows up, honey in his pockets,
tries to lure me across enemy lines.
I resist, but he's here, isn't he,
making the same old sweet promises,
charm wrapping, so we dance that dance
of remembrance like in those days
before the scales fell.
His back fades and my longing floats,
a pulsing pink mist riddled with stop signs
and train wrecks.
I promise myself I'll not so easily
ignore stop signs next time, know I lie,
know want still cuts deep.
My chest feels damp.
I don't need a mirror to tell me it's blood.
(c) Pris Campbell
Published in Bicycle Review August 2013
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