Society

Memories deepen
as wounds are opened
and histories are cited
and promises of futures more certain,
more prudent,
are made.

(There is nothing
that I can say here
that will change your mind.)

Past is past. You and your kind
have made an art of apologies.
I still haven't forgiven myself
for playing the victim.

There is a tiny death,
a ghost to permeate each cell
a cancer that consumes every limb
every time I hear you speak
your truth to me.
You remind me
of what a fool I am.
You remind me
of how easily I fall.
I analyse the color of your eyes,
the meaning of the look you gave me,
the meaning behind your brutal honesty
the contradiction of your apologies...
as I try to make sense of your world,
it becomes broken into a soulless assembly
of blocks and pixelation
and text fortified
by scientific evidence.
Seduced by the brain, but broken at heart,
you remind me
that I am a woman.

(Personally,
there is nothing you can say here
that can change my mind.
I still pretend that the world
can change more than its infrastructure.
That this endless bowl of fruit
will never rot my teeth,
that this pain
has a fertile, illogical end, grinning
from ear to ear.)

You

a place where dreams die
and these words are carved out, bright
tiny stars, starved
for attention
the critic's head
not tempered by the dying
consciousness, yet
not tethered to the brutal detail
of your dreams
floating
vapor trails
icing lashes
of your eyes
crushing this hope
with luscious isolation.
You know, I'll never know
your love
of disconnect.

Goodnight.