On being the enticement

Borrowed pride is

 The cobalt shirt I wore in our ceremonial farewell 

I didn’t carry any flowers with me or beaten books for your sister, 

Gertrude, who was my companion to safety and oblivion 

The analytical junky that never stopped working her mind 

setting the levers of a paradoxical machine

Borrowed pride is

to stand under a blistering sun with the eyes resting on a cold shiver   

and propagandize

my deadpan, sardonic smile

And my plan of claiming back the succumbed pride

The pride that was stolen from me in childhood

The man, the “black tar”, who hugged me firmly as if it were a hug of millions of blades

never blinked when referring to me ; 

A ghost in the houseis sitting on the dining table

 in silence

My eyes were on the white porcelain with a spoon, stroking the soup

Shame

Tar stains on a fair young face and tears 

A ghost 

newly baptized in a grieving liturgy, watching from the silver basin;

austere, withered lips and anemic, crossed arms 

having no substance, light, and translucent, lying around the living room where the brown velvet couch rests 

groveling on a psychedelic, dark red and blue, with golden patterns, Persian carpet. 

Pretending I’m drowning, screaming for help.

Help help !! My sister came to the rescue with her quick spastic laugh and a weak cold hand.

Pain is

The hug of a million blades 

Giving back a viscosity stain 

That doesn’t go away

“Now, you have to carry it around, little buddy, “said his disgusting, treacherous voice.

Then, with a wink, the glass of vodka in his hand, he took a sip. 

Staring at the ceiling at night from my wooden bed, 

there is a strange silver pattern up there.

That’s where my pain rests for the night, guarding my mourning body.