We are shifting (you and i)

 
"Writers aren't exactly people...
They're a whole bunch of people
trying to be one person."




What is it that you want from me?
Dear girl,
didn't anyone ever teach you
that you can't force
from the mind
what you deny
in the soul?
Soul
my soul has been sleeping
and we are
vertiginous in nature-
dyed in pretty shades
of insipid apologia
and the barron promise
of a poetic malignance
that beats against my calloused
heart like a war maidens
deafened battle cry.
Defiant
and suicidal
and aching
in a hell bent pursuit
of something greater than myself
or the creatures
that surround me
in a gay wild fire light
that I just never quite
felt bright enough
to dance alongside
with.
Yet
you weave a dress
of embers now,
shush me
in a routine paraphrase
of good intentions.
Delicate.
Subtle yet
lethal,
we can be beautiful-
consumed
by the scorching blue flames
licking at the corners
of my darkness.
I breathe in a sharp
mixture of pine needles and
burnt hair that recoil like
desperate snakes
praying to the ashes.
Begging like fools
as if god would spare them
in this futile struggle
from their sins
and their fathers alike.
Futile.
I say it aloud
so as to etch it into my memory
to never again be one
so naive.
The smoke rises-
I dream a painful dream
that I
spent a lifetime
betwixting forgiveness.
This amuses you.
Forgiveness of who?
Your question startles me-
I feel at lost for words.
It's only for a moment
but it's drawn out
like a cruel eternity
of grief stricken sorrow
and delphic visions
depicting a drunken satyr girl
decomposing in her youth.
Tyranny,
blasphemy.
How many years has it been
since we savagely stripped away
the transdermal wings
she so desperately
yearned into existence
through shear
emotional willpower
if nothing else?
We left her forsaken
from her beloved sky;
murdered. (We are murders, you and i)
Condemned in the dirt
and vaulted in a land
that failed
to make this side of the galaxy
ever feel slightly
like home
even if just
for a microsecond. (We are lost, you and i)
No response.
There is only silence and
I am far
from a tranquil woman.
I am nothing
if not a crime scene
asking for permission
to confess my everlasting
despondency.
You smile
a crooked smile
at the thought
as if to imply
that is not who we are,
not anymore.
But why-
then who am I?
Who are we?
Just where exactly
do we drawn the bloody
fucking line
between my ever growing
pile of
corpses
and your ideals?