If you wanted to
you could open up your chest
and let the truth spill onto the paper
like a pretty red valentine.
The penknife is in your hand
waiting for you to decide
whether to write or cut or carve your name
into someone else’s skin—
into his white and perfect innocence.
You know you should go back, retreat—
drop your weapons and throw up your arms.
You have no business
falling in love with the purest of hearts—
and you can almost hear him begging
to be spared your slow contamination.