Is it wicked to hope that you, like me,
can no longer see?
To wish this ailment upon you, from which I suffer?
What do you see?
You've left, and since,
my
vision's weakened.
I no longer
recognize myself,
the colors blurred.
Thanks to
you,
my skin is jumpy, my breath
less steady.
I'm peeling.
Thanks
to you,
my hearing is far too keen,
and my mouth is dry.
I'm empty
like the dusty
vase
stored, high on the top
shelf of the closet
that is now all mine.
I've kept it too
long.
You left, but your power stayed, and so
how
can I rightly know myself?
You've stolen words and time,
and for weeks and weeks,
I've stifled
screams
stuffed
with all enigma.
All lack.
Everything's gone, returned and turned away.
Your face draws nothing, nor
does mine,
blank,
bereft of essence.
The shape of behind
won't fill
pages,
and I wait for God knows what.
The lemons have over-ripened here,
to fat
and freakish-
fair-worthy. They pummel themselves, greedy
for attention
onto
the porch roof, and I start
every single time. It's like that- constant
catching,
the nerves, taut and pissed, restive. So, look
again,
at me,
at you,
grasp
for impression.
I hope your reflection
reveals the trauma
of singularity, and
when you smile it cracks.
No...
really, I only want my certainty back, the purpose. I want
a life undivided.
I want to
know
where it goes from here,
and how I've come so far.
the mag
No comments:
Post a Comment