You insisted that I take the high road.
So I apologized for speaking my mind.
(A mind is a terrible thing to lose.)
All the world loves the welcome mat:
The thing that lets you know that you have entered
a haven from all that can hurt you.
I invited the vampire inside per your instructions,
held the door wide open so that it was free
to enter through the threshold,
walking all over the doormat in the process,
to sink it's teeth into my neck, the one
I stuck out for you, and it bit down
hard and drained me of any
life I had, and it fed on my weakness
until I failed to exist anymore.
That high road I took
was a road I'd traveled often: so well worn
that I could have traversed it as a sleepwalker,
(would that I actually got a good night's sleep
once in a while). It was, however, a road less
traveled by you. The hypocrisy of your marching
orders rings through me now, like a siren
screaming its arrival.
Attend to me!
Get out of my way!
No one stands in the way of your progress
as regress. You inch yourself forward,
indicating all the way that every step
you take or have ever taken is a giant
leap worthy of several camera angles.
The flash bulbs blind, and I wonder:
If the road was so high,
why do I feel so low?
Copyright © Irene Hammer-McLaughlin