I envy the amnesia
you weave through
the fabric of your
reflective recollections;
your tapestry is ruined
by the blatant narcissism
embedded into the linen.  

You've been eroded with lost time,
stained by spilt wine,
left behind in the cobwebbed-crevices
of our mind, a struggle to survive
the depravity of your kind.

The Fourth of May
passes with ease,
cohesive stitches
etched across my skin,
the only reminder
of your tattooed sins,
the very ones I always condemned.