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Cindy and Sydney - -
The Birth of Sydney

Cindy half lay in a corner of the room,
her long hair drooping over her head.
Almost touching the floor, it hid her face from view.
Sobbing now, low and fully,
the long painful bursts
creeping all the way from
where pain begins and silence ends.
Cindy was no virgin 
but this was her first trick,
and was not a good experience.
Gone now, he was drunk to the point of insensitivity,
playing the role of John Holmes.
Not in the passive sense.
He was belligerent and cruel,
demanding satisfaction. 
She gathered the bits and pieces 
of herself together …
from the walls, the floor, 
and vowed no one would ever
touch her, that way, again.
The early morning air, was brisk as she walked 
out to the curb.
Her head cleared completely.
She saw him come from the bar across the street, 
staggering to the curb---- sick.
Walking up to him, he grinned that silly piece of a grin 
he had when he first exposed himself to
her earlier in the night.
She almost wretched as he took her by the arm,
come on honey he said through fetid breath. 
I have just the thing for you.
I’ll bet you do.  I’ll just bet you do she thought.
Far back, in the ally way she propped him up 
against the side of a building, while she
fumbled at the pants.  
When the time was right she quickly moved
and the straight razor was quick, sure and thorough.
She stood up and looked into the puzzled, pain ridden eyes.
Look at me she said.  Look at me!
I want you to know who did this, if only for a second.
He turned a saddened guilt laden face to her in recognition.
The razor slashed again, and trying to speak 
the words gurgled
from the opening in his throat.
“My name is Sydney” she said, don’t you ever forget it”

© cgh nov 2011
COMMENT: This poem is entirely fictional. Dark poetry 
seems out of my realm, but If you think I could continue 
a "Sydney" series please comment to that effect, and I 
will make another attempt.   It is hard because I do not
like the foul language which usually accompanies a poem
such as this.
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