The first time cast out, like
fretting existence, too damn early—to feel imperfection.
The attractive wraith, so damaged
with finesse, too complete in beauty.
I’m sick for a phantom. I met her. It
lives in me.
The cold isolation, the million-dollar
therapist, I awoke so quickly. I’m not bragging. I was hungry as 50-day famine.
So aborted again—not as from the
womb—from the community.
Love is aching, a law was passed,
she was injured, forced to raise the product, and partner wants to see his
child.
Complications.
Awakened.
Like a hyena on an infant.
Like a gut tear. Like running into
a lion’s den. So messed the implications. In needs for a new law.
So delicate.
We need remedies.
Love was good for a solid decade.
A long run, if we know rain, so
inadequate inside—so sick for excellence.
The main domain, the rebel soul,
like Angela Davis.
So cured, so damaged, a mixture is
a powerful creature. I was attracted; I saw fringes; I was attacked; I struck, I
hit a bone, I realize impetuosity.
The third time casted out, a laugh
for me, a pain too deep to frown.
The penalty for the anguish, the nights
seated in silence, the mornings with red eyes.
