We Hurt the Ones We Love

One evening id will take a line, and superego will suffer a bloody nose
his stained skin still saintly
while id's smile is supine and sick
like the bottom of the bottle where the worm settles

"I truly doubt you will ever improve. This isn't love." declares superego
(the curve of her hips reminds him of some train derailment
the sort where people die-
don't cut flowers that grow in the concrete, he thinks
and dear God where are her clothes?)
"This isn't love. This is iniquity."

he imagines she's a harp, arced insensate on his bed
strangely out of tune, bordering beyond repair
though he never would touch her strings