Mea Culpa

by hiraeth   Aug 18, 2021


And I draw breath, parting myself down
the seam like a hairline fracture forming
on the fork of a wishbone, ready to
splinter with a little exertion.

Before you can speak –
gravity pushes its body weight onto
either side of the wishbone, and
cracks it into two.

The marrow is free.

Please, let me spill into you.

Broken into two; one-third into a
misshapen form, one that I can’t
recognize, and the other two-thirds;
a form that can only be casted in
your light.

You reach for the larger half –

are you a narcissist, or are you simply
taking back what is rightfully yours?

I’m a weapon in your hands,
have you forgotten?

I still don’t know why,
but the intimacy it affords does not
elude me – hold me, even if it is only in
an act of violence, and not one born of
tenderness, I will precipitate accordingly.

I worry you’ll hone your words
and sharpen your love for me,
with each stroke passing over
the whetstone, it gets thinner,
and thinner, and you’ll wonder
if it still is wieldable –

you’ll stab me with it,
and neither you and I
will notice where the
wound is.

A sliver of pain
will pang in the heart,
like a soft echo in a
forest – unsure if you
heard it, you tread on.

Am I sound to you?
What do I sound like to you?

Do I sound as violent as the sea,
or am I the lull of midnight to you,
where all the dark is meant to be?

What does my name sound like
coming from your mouth?

I –

I can’t remember.

I dreamt of you, last night.

I dream of you, a lot.

You were adorned in a white silk dress,
gold anklet clinking as you ran down
a stone corridor, you turn the corner
and wait patiently for the wolf to catch
you. You offer it tea, and it accepts,
you give it a name, Isolde.

With dreams being where the subconscious
mind reconciles reality, I implore you to
digest them and tell me what they mean.

In the other half of the dream, that
I promised to never speak of again,
You –

(…)

It’s okay,

I know the toll it takes on you
to see me in the light.
As nurturing as the sun is,
very little can thrive in
eternal sunshine:

I, in, tachypsychia, find myself
holy after bathing in your
infinite light that echoes
on the city horizon,

while you bottle me in the
waning minutes of twilight.

(…)

There’s more than one way to oblivion,
I know, I’ve been charting them for
as long as I can remember.

3


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