The Laugh of Judas

He spikes his own tea,

claims it’s the same

as the slow drip in my veins.

He spits out the spiked tea,

a liquid mirror reflection

of his schemes.

The coxcomb’s hearty snicker,

aimed at my debris, my head

and heart— his hollowness

turns to a biting no

from yes and claims

the vision belongs to him alone.

The truth— he stole my words,

twisted them for delicious kicks,

to leave my heart at the curb.