my own murder

time is no longer my accomplice

i can’t get away with my own murder
the way i could when days were without number

now each sun is an accursed gift
mine not to squander but to hoard jealously
to protect fiercely from flood and famine

i raise my fists in worshipful defiance
to find that they rest in my lap, open,
waiting for dreams to fall through
into the future of my past


this is the word
the one that describes us

but, not content
to merely be conscious of
our physicality
or to hover above this
earthly plane,
we instead add an accent
we stress the a

which makes us more than just lovers
we are two halves
of the same fractured shadow
slipping sideways
through cracks in the present

runs on

you are heart of my heart
(but my heart now is dangerous)
you are bones of my hands
(but my bones are a trap)
you are blood in my veins
(but my blood now is traitorous)
you are breath in my lungs
(but my lungs may collapse)

and the guilt
and the guilt
and the guilt runs on
am i stealing your life?
am i stealing its son?
and the guilt runs on
and the guilt runs on

disappearing act

i ignore you purposefully
and yet my mind finds you
it’s out of control
a goddamn somnambulist
shuffling in circles
instead of advancing
it finds your hands
and tries to hold them
it finds your eyes
and tries to meet them
but hands and eyes both
slip away like reality
and you disappear again
and again and again


you are in me.
you are ocean, you are tide
i swim in your depths
and am caught, tangled
in seaweed arms
i breathe your water
into my lungs
i flail against you
the embodiment of futility
for you sustain me.
you imprison me.
you free me.
you are


as water

i swallowed the truth of you
without asking
without yes, without please
your sweetness ran down my throat
like honey
like reeds in water
slip under and seem to
rise again for breath
(inanimate though they are)
they flow; they, too, become liquid
and in that moment i both ingested you
and became you
i bent to your will
(or perhaps
your will and mine
simply slipped outside the confines
of ownership, of you, or of i)