These Cells Are Passages

My mistakes
engulfed in flames:
that, or my failures
plucked one by one,
each a rotten tooth in the dog's mouth.
Guilt never did anyone any good,
but here I am, after the fact,
writing letters, pleading my case
to unseen juries, my fate as cliched
as some other romantic's,
whose hopeless, blackened fingers glide across
the text of innocence, experience.

Dicks have it so much easier.
They owe no explanation.
They smoke in my car.
They flood their eyes with their own feel-good wisdom.
They welcome me, cardigan over their shoulder,
into their home,
where I feed their cat
and stack their junk mail.

My mistakes
etched on peeling wallpaper:
that, or my failures
written sloppily on foggy glass.
These are the products of my hysteria.
These are the results of my experiments:
a basement destroyed,
bricks projected, like teeth
during a boxing match.
Romance fails me; I fail it.
The toothless dog lies still, gums raw,
and stays clear
of the burning house.