you (dumb monks and dumber angels)

you were like soft voices meant for no one’s ears
singing in my memory;
a lyric i can’t remember,
a melody i can’t forget.

you were the unwritten music
that i could not play.

every note that you did not sing
resonates in my bones and collects
like the calcium that moons itself in my fingernails:

you are the self-flagellator,
the modern-day, self-propelled Prometheus:
you are your own punisher, your own Zeus,
and I am far-off Olympia immovable–
or perhaps I am your cliff.

i could be nothing at all,
but we both know that i matter somewhere
(it’s only that i don’t want to be called self-centered, so i won’t admit it.)

bear with me–
i want you to hear this.

i want you to reassemble from your own ashes
and reform the pages you ripped in your furies to make tinder
for the fires of your personal hell
so i can thrust you forth like the new bible
to be worshipped underground–
don’t you get it?

i want you to be seen.

i want to shove you naked into the open
with your scars livid and your blood running hot to stain the flagstones,
to shine a mirror on your surface
so it blinds the people’s eyes to see you.

i want to run my teeth along your bruises;
i want to eat the shit you mire yourself in.
i want to beat the field of dead horses we’ve raised,
and blow their stench on the winds to the rest of the world we ignored for so long,
i want you to be seen.
i want everyone to know.

i want you to realize: you are my idol,
but not like the churches devise
(you are no flailing flamed jesus).

don’t be a martyr anymore.
don’t you get it? it’s over.
your cross is withering.


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