Gentle atop a scar, bars in brains, lethal like
damages; accursed to know us, to elate a star, like losing became beautiful.
I was twelve, mother was ceremony, to worship his
mother; so absent those years, fully present, disrespecting God, trespassing
Commandments.
Fifteen was passion, a first lady, thrust &
desecrated; so close it ached, torn by confusion, one carries over into
another: there must be closure.
Intense honesty fails, to desire a dream, to live like
perfect—thrashing reigns.
If to smother excellence, bleeding grief, to exist his
body—afloat a decade, tears falling, needing in determination—
if to repent, if to bring essence to life, with so
much hanging on breaking freedoms.
I was seventeen, tender desecration, existence became
foreign; to push, pull, & tug at brains; to garden like hatred, filled with
fuels; and watch naivety, it hates opposing dialectics, a true infection.
If I could erase you, with all this growth, I’d be ten-years
dumber.
