Regina v. Wilde

Based on true events.

The wood of the court bannister is polished by the oils of condemned men.

It smells of wax, old sweat, and the low, bitter tang of fear.

I am careful not to touch it more than I must.

The thought clings to my mind — that these worn rails have held steady all the desperate hands of the guilty, the damned, the broken.

I stand, alone, facing the room — facing England itself, crammed into coats and powdered wigs, each face heavy with the weight of its own righteousness.

Above us, the gaslights burn faintly, a sickly yellow. The walls are the color of tired bone.

Edward Carson rises from the prosecution’s bench. His papers slap the table like a pistol shot.

He does not hesitate. He does not smile.

He is here to carve me open.

And I — fool, poet, criminal of affection — I am here to bleed.