Spitting between his shoes,
someone I might have been
has lost all fear.
And from that unassailable sanctuary
can hate, with methylated vigour,
those like me who are merely
clean,
sober,
afraid.
His eyes say Fuck you,
and I think Fuck you too,
and damn you to Hell.
Too late: he’s there already.
I mouth, “You chose”,
but his eyes pierce my back
and leave the words tattooed:
So did you.
Boethius 1