In time,
you will grow away from me.
Your wandering, open
eyes will soon narrow with
self-imposed isolation
and misunderstanding
worthy of any causeless rebel.
Having you
was a decision
made,
not lightly, but
without real thought;
and every whimper,
every migraine-inducing cry
draws from me,
guiltily, the question: why?
Do I have such a penchant for failure
that I would choose
this of all paths? The
roads that stem from
here end at failure;
like Larissa,
this justified, true belief
is knowledge, but useless.
Binding myself
to you
is a mistake,
not because I cannot
let you go
when I tire
of you –
but because
it is you who will tire
and let go of
me.
The irony,
ironically,
is that I
do not even have
you. My womb
remains un-invaded; my
maidenhead un-punctured.
Yet, your presence is
around me,
a vacuum,
a bell jar,
robbing me of me
until
to give birth to your
bloody
ageing
mass is more acceptable
than doing away with the wolf
and crying incompetence!
All attempts at deviance are met
with social laughter and dismissal;
eggs predetermined
to be bred for humanity.
‘Just one more…’ shall
become my mantra
as I ferment for the
fourth, fifth, sixth
time.
No comments:
Post a Comment