there is no prize for this, no garland of olives pressed against my temple, i keep thinking i was born into the wrong allegory, that i was meant to be someone else's sacrifice, soft thing bound in philosophy's margin. i would wear my obscurity like perfume if it would make you stay longer, if it would trick you into thinking i was necessary, that without me your scaffolds collapse, that without me your empire has no keystone
they say history was written by survivors but i know it is written by men who never bled like i bled, who never curled on linoleum with a mouthful of theories choking out half breathed, who never learned how to sacrifice quietly, how to keep the throat still when the blade is resting there, i envy their conviction, i envy their arrogance, their shameless declarations about meaning, while i invent smaller rituals
i want to be the poison that leaves its aftertaste in the marrow, the red stain in your fingernails you cannot scrub away, i want my absence to scream so loud you mistake it for god speaking, i want my ruin to be the measure of your importance, i want to matter like disaster matters, permanent, undeniable, written into the soil itself, if sacrifice is all i can master then let me conjugate myself endlessly into it, i am clever only in the way a wound is clever, in the way it insists on being felt even when ignored, i am not saved by sacrifice, i am not holy for it, i am exhausted, i am still here whispering i mattered i mattered until the words fossilise until the sound becomes unkillable
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