Forgiveness

I believe that this poem is self-explanatory.

It is not spare change,
a cigarette, the time.

It is not given by request
to an open hand
for a smile.

It is not for the asking.

If I give you what you want;
this flower, cut neatly at the stem,
then what am I to do with its roots?

The choking matrix
beneath my flesh;
entwined, a python mating ball,
endlessly writhing
in the pit you dug
with a black heart
and filthy fingers.

So, now you've washed your hands;
scoured the sour stink of treachery
from your villainous flesh
and choked out, "I'm sorry"s.

Do you expect me to swallow?

You are gagging on guilt,
and I've no bedside manner.