Memories That Do Me No Good

First, let me begin by stating that I abhor Twilight. I feel it to be overwrought, faux-emotional dreck. So I decided to parody it somewhat with this poem. It strikes me as the kind of thing Bella would write after Edward leaves her in New Moon instead of bucking up and pulling on her post-Gloria Steinem big girl panties. Hence, it sounds like someone ripped open a thesaurus and poured out as many synonyms for sad, lonely emotional wreckage as he/she could find.

I feel a sadistic, snarling tharrump
against the cavernous, empty spaces of
my rib-caged prison. And I contemplate
memories that do me no good.
Dangerous meditation on
the time I swapped hearts
with a heartless man.

An Arthur Miller salesman,
dead or dying, a two-bit con,
he was a dead-souled Adonis.
A silken-voiced
weaver of love and lust;
sweet subterfuge of the soul.

The delicious sin, the tantalizing
rapture of delight ran through
me. Addicting, enslaving,
I sank into molasses-thick
communion with my own abasement.
I delighted in our empty-branched love,
and inconsequential lust.

And in the midst of wicked delight,
I felt suddenly a cavernous emptiness,
a maelstrom of arctic nothing.
Where once my beating soul had
spelled out my hopes and dreams,
there was a diseased mass of
atrium and ventricle, accomplishing
naught but blood flow and scant survival.

I searched for that thief of me,
but he was gone, oozing into the
cracks of detrimental memory.
And so I remain here, stuck in
this pitiless limbo; waiting, hoping,
praying on my imperfect sinner’s
knees that I might someday find
a man who’s souled enough for me.

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