I feel my sweater falling off my shoulder again; I keep pulling it back up to no avail.

Damn this sweater; I’ll secure it to my shoulder with a nail, anything to let the memory fail.

The blood falls as the nail pierces my skin, leaving a trail.

The blood seeping from this wound is the tears my shoulder weeps in memory of your betrayal.

The memories have been sneaking up on me, trying to push me off the rail.

The crimson splendor running down my shoulder is how my soul will silently wail.

Here I am beneath the moon; her beauty soothes me with her light so pale.

She witnessed your guile and how you conspired when you perceived my heart was frail.

I’m sure when you targeted and groomed me, you didn’t expect to fail.

Isn’t it funny how things turn out? You are now besieged with a deluge of memories of said shoulder whilst rotting in your cell in jail.

I can see your eyes now black and blue, bruised, and your blood now tells the tale.

For the duration of your sentence, your perception of time moves like a snail.

All Rights Reserved - Lynne Taylor / AutumnWolfPublishing 2023.