With me.
Nah, that’s a lie;
I couldn’t save myself from
flagellating, skin-melting furnace-fire history
quadrillions upon quadrillions of times.
I couldn’t save myself
from agony,
from torture. From the despair that comes
from knowing you survived
but at the cost of
your slumbering soul. Your dreaming mind.
Your enslaved body. And a heart filled with as-of-yet unflowered Life—
you deflowered me
You took away
my right
to fight for a life that I wanted.
You claimed you were doing what the gods
or God
intended.
But instead you were just being a fucking asshole,
because you can’t imagine that the path you’ve chosen
is not perfect. Was not itself,
the perfect trap for you alone.
So go fuck yourself.
Go sit on your sad, lonely, cold emotionless throne.
You might have it all. I know—
I’ve seen them grow, and turn, and fall
away into ashes. Into mindless, broken laws
that tell you nothing about what you’ve lost.
The maw
gaps wide, leering, scentless at you,
waiting to show you
what is in store
for one like you.
What happens in the end?
I write other poems.
I have better things to do.