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


it was an accidental confession
a schoolgirl scrawl
scratched with a fingertip
against an icy windowpane
in a moment of careless dreaming.
it wasn’t meant to be a revelation
and when you saw it, i hid
in the corner, my face in my hands,
in absolute, abject terror,
for though there are times
when your eyes seem to give you away
a part of me fears they know how to lie.