His Sinful Words

He owned his sin. 
He flaunted it, 
as one might flaunt a new pair of shoes. 
He wore it around comfortably.
He draped his sin over his shoulder, he wrapped it around his waist. 
He enjoyed the way it shimmered.
The way it sharpened all of his angles.
He showed it off,
to all of those who envied him, 
and he laughed. 
He let his sin engulf his entire being, choking out anything decent.  
And he whispered his sin in my ear,
words that sounded gentle but echoed harsh.
He begged his sin
don't leave, don't leave.
He is lost without it.
Lost to himself at least.
And I loved him like Neruda loved,
like certain dark things,
like whispered secrets,
like stolen glances.
Because loving him was indulgent,
and selfish, 
and unraveling.
Because he didn't just own his sin.
He was his sin,
and he wore it well.