Little Gidding

forward steps

off the line, padded feet in the woods

the spring of the cats, loping between the trees

sifting the grass and cutting open the hearth, the oak flickers

in the waning sun, silence the traffic, push the closing rustles far, far from your ears

the whispers are writhing in your cup, and I have never owned the quiet

quite like this, like your friends do, their smiles are running ashes

false as warmth, false as fire, false as the glowing cinders

I have clutched brighter bones than this, burned darker than you,

and seethe gently as you flicker across screens, still existing in spite of me,

with the cigarette ends slowly killing you

sometimes watching you rot

seems appealing to me

imagining you suffocating on the slow black smoke of dividing cells settles ‘

nicely in the pit of my guts

but like my anger, that is something you own

the symbol of you like danger,

like your freedom that’s just stupidity dressed up as “queen”

dressed in clothes that show your new hips, but I know you still vomit

uncertainty & paint

immature attempts at feeling, everything you do

just so fucking mediocre

you’ve always had the privilege not to try

but I sit here wasting my words on you again

bearing the burden of hate and

letting it eat me away sometimes

I am still vomiting out the poison of broken hearts

the swallowed plastic of discarded toys

as if all this bleeding will cleanse the humors when the only salve is forgiveness

can I bend the knee at that altar

allow myself humbled again

will my pride bear that

or will I eat this grudge

gnaw at my fists until raw,

& barren knuckles


to simply forget.


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