you and I hold grief like an untended fire hoping it will burn itself out and ever surprised when the flames kick up, knee high and sparking ever an altar to our own undoing my red-wolf-violent and your pale-hare-fragile at odds, at length, at the daybreak of our fabricated sun embers like fireflies on the frost-laden horizon Saturn in retrograde How we claim that we are not the people we used to be every seven years a new frame, untouched by the far past shed selves like a mausoleum, brickwork littering our home there is no reset, minutes on the clock never to be rewound you cannot disown the past, creature of your own making cannot unslit the throat of the kneeling calf bloodred and open like my awe You are, as ever, yourself, and that is not reason enough for me to forgive you.
AN OPEN FORUM FOR THE BUTCHERS OF DECEMBER // 0097