Spilled

I used to know a boy, an oil slick Who reeked of small and sad and hopelessness, The better to lure birds to his distress. And in this way he captured, made me sick. The cameras in his eyes began to click, The oil spread to lather its new flesh, To cover all that's delicate and fresh And introduce something much more chronic. How long John held me under in the dark, How many beasts I kissed so wantonly, How many shocks I felt instead of sparks Will stay inside the oil within me. It creeps around to hint that it's still there; Can't banish it from skin, feathers, nor hair.