We know the things we do are not for love,
but for something more haunting, something
soaked in darkness like gasoline and set fire to
like a molotov cocktail burning in your hand and
you’re standing there, looking around, full of the
taste of power and control and you’re wondering
where you should throw this thing, what you should
destroy simply because you can, because it’s there
in your hand and you want it. That’s enough, right?
These instincts make better arguments without words
than the thread of morality still alive in both of us has
in all these years, all these days and nights that have
gone by unused, that have said now is your chance,
why don’t you act? And what was our answer, our
cheap excuse? Do you even remember? All this time
wasted because of things that are not strong enough
to hold us back, not really, not when we really want it,
when we’re rabid for it. We’ve been sick with this for
a decade now and every year it gets worse. These
fever dreams and mood swings do nothing to keep
us away from each other, merely provide excuses -
hey, let’s get drunk, it’s been a long week. What
are we trying to accomplish by playing with fire?
We know the way it burns like we swallowed lit coals
and we know the cliff-edge is weak and crumbles
beneath our feet, but we keep stepping closer
to look over the edge, our hearts racing like we
might actually be aware we’re close to slipping.
Are we aware or is this all another fever dream?
Are we slipping in or slipping out, does this change
anything? Can you remember what life felt like
before this? Would you recognize it to see it?
These worlds have merged so close together
I’m not sure which is which anymore. Was it you
I kissed on New Years? Was it you who wrecked
our car in the summer and clutched at the needles
poking into his veins like they were spiders trying
to lay eggs in him? Or was it you who picked me up
from the hospital, you who filled my drink, you who
hides in my periphery like an alternate timeline?