WUTHERING HEIGHTS

I have loved
The wrong men
In the wrong way
Too often
To listen
To the stuttering
Of the tell-tale heart.

So I tell you straight,
What you wish to claim
I buried deep
With a sharp stake
Through the aorta,
Coming right out-
Bloody and gory-
On the other side.

I stuffed it with garlic
Anointed it with Holy-Oils
Sanctified it
By  burial
On Holy Ground.

Then like Heathcliff
Overcame with doubt;
I opened the casket,
Dragged the corpse out.
French-kissed
Its maggot–lips,
Spat the spite out.

So don’t come
To me now with
That winning smile
Requesting love
Without doubt.

Don’t you see my face?
My eyes washed
Wide-opened
By my last mistake?
I buried that love,
Along with my blindness,
In one mass-grave.

Manuela Cardiga