From Lady Macbeth, to her late child; a poem

I told you I was the minotaur.

But the truth is,

I would not perish for you

here, in the arena

where every morning heralds the end of an era.

This dimension where

the plains are the palms of the fallen,

buckling under our knees.

Truth is,

you do not know how it feels

to have a pulse

slip into the hole

between your elbows.

To count the number of stones

on walls whose construction,

and collapse,

know no end.

Truth is,

you have not watched men’s palms

harden, like abandoned moons,

days after they have finished dying,

cannot understand that

these fields will burn

once you have turned your back.

Truth is,

the moanings in these fogs

will not differentiate

between predator and prey.

And truth is,

when your tongue saddled my breast,

I could’ve sworn

you meant

to drink me raw.

Truth is,

I lost you

in the simplest way I could

lose my mind:

by falling inside my own cavity,

by carving the daylight from your shoulders,

by shattering the base of your skull and

replacing it with my own.