Maybe it was

the May heat that

got to you; the sweat

made your finger slip

off the trigger.

Maybe it should have been

two bottles rather than one

to put an end

to this joke we call life.

Maybe it was

the pattern of your sleep

that tangled your insides

and dredged out the

criminal in us all,

knife aimed at

our beating hearts.

Maybe it was

the miscarriage that

made you this way,

anxious and unworthy

and unable to feel

the warmth of a Soul

resting upon whatever

is in the place of yours.

Or maybe it was me,

chasing a pipe dream

named Denisse.

Blind to reality,

dumbstruck over the sight

of the body, the face,

the stupid dresses and skirts,

the secondhand clothing

that typifies a generation

of harlots and wannabe’s,

of sad, sad people

Just like you