|
By Ali Date: 2007 Jun 12 Comment on this Work [[2007.06.12.09.01.3597]] |
|
There was so much and then so little—but how familiar it seems, in the little heaves of silence, old mistakes limping by, outrun by each quick disaster: how could you not know? It seems too easy to pretend. The phone swallowed my hand: the circle of a snake, kneeling in a wayward Eden— I will dial the numbers, but to what end? You no longer wear my face, and I seem to only brandish yours in response to this: again, you have ransacked my heart. Which part forgets, and which strike of innocence is remembered? An untrained soldier once, could I now be a casualty uncounted? The truth seems more possible than all this is worth, and I am only angry outside of your eyes. There was so much and then so little— but unregretting, unrelenting, unacknowledging you consume (and then spit out) every breaking point of my resistance— I would hate you, but deeper than this surface rage, I know, I know I can’t. |