Composite Sketch

[Patrick Haltiwanger]

yellow crime scene tape has been placed
in a crisscross pattern across my heart
tattered and torn
furious and scorned
from old hurts and unsettled scores
even though those wounds have healed
and the scars are very noticeable
angry cynicism still secures my perimeter
like a vicious canine unit
ready to maul and apprehend
the next gun-toting manipulator
who uses riddles in the dark and an impersonal weapon
with the intention of exploiting my defenses
to fire off three faint gunshots of I. love. you.
fatal
only to make me their latest victim
and my body the newest crime scene
I won't survive any more regret wailing in my head
like sirens in the distance
my childlike naivetè to rid myself of loneliness
allowing suspects who instinctively send my sensors awry
access to my mystique and exclusivity
in exchange for the attention
then complaining to God, using dolls to show
how the bad men rob the willing victim of innocence
I desire it, love sick youngster
deprived of love and intimacy
riding shotgun on a downward spiral
on the brink of an early grave for the living dead
from injuries sustained through poisoning my mind
with chalk outlines and shell casings of past attempts
grim death grip of fear
prevents me from taking on the fugitive
who caused all this suppressed pain
the composite sketch is a self portrait