Refraction

Blasé, you are,
over the puncture wound
you left behind,
just above the heart,
just off center.
Your surprise at
my inertia. The delay
in emotion. The
bending of heat waves.
In knee jerk anger.
Smug to think that
because you
were the architect of
my mausoleum,
that somehow you
could offer me your veins
to drink from;
an gesture of your
sacrifice for me?
How freakishly absurd.
I will bleed out with my gaze
fixed on my own reflection.
I will not bend for you.
You do not get to repent.
Your guilt will be your noose,
and I will kick the chair you
stand on.