the Prometheus death fit for humankind, take it then take it and see how we are born, see how we’ll die.
two mouths crawling the Medusa legs us pale girls virulence being told is our blood and bones.
this would always be the self-suicide, generous with tragedy
I see you I hoard your threaded- mulling-overs; playing me into junction, screaming, sighing screaming, sighing
psyche-reaped and kissed into a lushed womb where coiling into my lap, she lay
variegated in singes; touches of her neck and wrist, contused in no promises, only the sprawl of remembrance gets darker
with no thread of flowers to plant your feet on, and into morning air at a hotel room remembering that’s what home felt like.
I found a dead deer in the road at the same time my dad told me not to look;
Do not tell me what I was to redraw that cold war face, to see a woman of what I bleed
as if I held her hand, full of regret. A weeping willow rejects me breathing in my cigarettes, death’s in the traveler being left alone in Italy; from the garden, all bodied, all that red and bleak
I sit at her bedroom window an age where branches hung themselves Antigone.
Neurochemical duress, the labor of my body aglows, destitution in mental illness; a fragmented waste of sperm
i only have sensibilities in sempiternal madness
I had the same hope Sylvia Plath did, at one point, in her journal—she didn’t want to die.
my heart in the oubliette
turn away cull the thoughts wanting to go home.
just not to feel anything beyond me in solitude’s Occam’s razor.
How fucked is that? She mused in her dreamscape.
I pull her free into the garden
my death resigned in her bedroom; a pharaoh’s whip on my heart, laughing