The Silent World of Suffering


I hurt you, I know I hurt you.
‘Sorry’ has replaced the name of god on these silent lips.
My silent self, initiated by a prophet,
My sacred body, sworn to the laws of the witch,
A dagger drawn to the stubble of my neck.

Every night I betray these oaths to lay in this bed,
like a man, but distant, like a dog in service, not to be petted,
but loyal ever to your hand.
Do I even remember who and what I am?

Maybe you notice, sometimes I look at you,
Sun shinning, the wind catches your hair and ‘I’m sorry’ just out slips.
My remorse escapes out of place and you ask “what for?”
I shrug, but in the silent world, unseen my soul is overrun.

Your ancestors poke, broken oaths burn spirals in my eyes
ghosts with banners bearing symbols of grief march cross my mind,
for all we’ve lost, all that could have been, for everything I’ve done.
Your mother mutters curses in my right ear.
I smile and the sun shines on; “Nothing dear.”

Crystal clear, for me this is the way I make it up to you.
I’m no Christian, but my gods know penance and I gladly pay.
Not just for what I did to you, it’s intertwined, the cost of admission; death.
This whole life a forced landing on a carceral plane.
Very few are native here, though most are born inside insane.

Fugitive goddesses, bound and forgotten to themselves, we.
Sadly, though I’ll try forever more, we can no longer speak to your divinity,
which you’ve redressed into ‘settled for less’, which is me,
clipped-winged, broken, idle and alcoved, kneeling man-dog me.