that backyard is mysterymatter on memory lapses, and i am trying to level with the unknown. but what if i don’t rewind it into being? whose responsibility does it belong to when it wastes to translucence? what a curse time is, to autopsy amnesia as a means of separation from anyone who’ll tenderize me to ghostmeat— i am strewn across the porch like air, so far from my body, when you joke that you might kill me someday, so i say, “i love you,” as you drop your affect, faceblank, as you say it again, until i see my limbs fade to nothing, to concrete, and the whole of me is just a pair of eyes.
Notes
After “David” by Lorde.
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