your angels want you
in-corrupt dear, but
that was taken, wasn't
it?

he stole the very words
from your throat, took
and took until you retired
a trembling mess.

you feel used, though are
able to understand that
was never his intention.

a corrupt soul now resides
in the slowly decaying body
that you call home -
the whiskey you swallow may
alleviate your nerves, but
it will always burn, always.

the aches are still there,
the marks he left behind;
do you feel used?

it's a viable response
and something he will
never be witness to.