Portrait of You and Time as Partners in Crime in the Case of the Murder of Truth
(Time pleads guilty, you don’t)
You, now: and write with the last thread of breath that hasn’t been expelled yet: clinging desperation like cobwebs in the corners of lungs.
Your pen: raucous envy and tumultuous ferociousness honed to a fine blade that slices into sentences and carves multitudes out of word-blocks;
Your subconscious: careful hands steadily paving through the obscene ruins of memory.
Time: bittersweet fondness, feather-light yet dense as honey sticking to the roof of your mouth, rose-tinted nostalgia dusting blood and tears and sweat with a shimmery haze;
(unwipeable traces)
You, now: probing, tenderly
indents left on festering flesh
peeled-back-skin, bleached bone
(you reach in expecting the cool touch of solid gold)
you withdraw with a fist of grease and rot
(rumbling laughter floods as you look to the sky reproachfully)
Your subconscious: “oh
fuck.”
Time: slippery cunningness, damning hubris
shell-shocked silence, yielding surrender
You, now: clasped with silver, clad in stripes
unrelenting sorrow wilting in front of that accusing stare, burnt beneath your eyelids
Your pen: “ah yes, good muse-fodder for the depraved writer.”
🐝 - According to my friends, this is one of my more iconic pieces. Wrote it in a Starbucks before reading The Great Gatsby and feeling very disappointed.