Heal Thyself

Oh, little girl,
you've opened a wound so big
just by being adorable.

How dare you. How dare you.
How dare you exist.

What a train wreck you've made of my low expectations of young women.
What punishment shall I now devise as a predicate to the subject of your
egregious. . .
existential. . .
FELONY!

What's that, little girl?
No. Don't flatter yourself.
This is not bad-boy psychotic(!) notebook(!) dementia(!)()!()

This is justice served cold on a linear plate.

For in hatred, everything must have a predicate
because Love is the Mother of all Subjects.

So how to end the sentence your beauty has started?

I could hurt you.
I could smother you.
I could own you.

God, I hope I don't want to become you.

Like our aimless manes of hair,
there are enough tangled complexities in my life
to know that while identities are fluid,
they fail as conditioners.

Nothing can straighten me out.
This reflection cannot be replaced.
This reflection will have to suffice.

And what do you seek from this image, anyway, little girl?

Its M.ind?
Its A.ccomplishments?
Its N.arrative?

or other subtractions from the wholeness of Love?

When you plunged your dagger,
what did you think you would find?
A heart?

Run along, little girl.
I don't need you to speak the truth for me.
This is not the way it works.
No one Loves for posterity.

You're smooth. . .
But not obsidian.

This reflection cannot be replaced.
This reflection will have to suffice.

. . .desreveRReversed. . .

See now, little girl?

The adventures are just routines
and, through clinical predictability,
the magic has been neutralized.

"Come on, you fucking cocksucker!"
I shout down the dim tracks,
waiting for the lights of the late train to finally appear.
Ah. . .there it is again.
That good ol' earthly impatience.
Other people's children are screaming WANT into my ears.
Music I despise is stealing space between my thoughts.
My emptiness overflows into this rat-infested reality
and I know I'll get better soon
once the Light from your Eyes
is extinguished from the landscape
of this unavoidable present.

Little girl, my wound is healing.
And I don't need you anymore.