The Second Oldest Story

Go I must along my ways
Though my heart be ragged,
Dripping bitter through the days,
Festering, and jagged.
Smile I must at every twinge,
Kiss, to time its throbbing;
He that tears a heart to fringe
Hates the noise of sobbing.

Weep, my love, till Heaven hears;
Curse and moan and languish.
While I wash your wound with tears,
Ease aloud your anguish.
Bellow of the pit in Hell
Where you're made to linger.
There and there and well and well-
Did he prick his finger!

by Dorothy Parker

Comments (1)

Biting? Oh, yeah. By big chomps. Addicted? I'd say she was addicted to the same dark lover over and over again. Drawn to him, she pricks her finger on that self-same spindle time after time.