You are a long, duplicitous night
pockmarked with insecurity.
I cast pennies for the sake of excavation
but not once have I felt whole.
You are unanswerable without inherent proclivities,
a cold anchor ripping into sunken shores.
I bare the tragedies of your untimely conception.
Without you there is only silence.
I have come to understand myself by your terms.
I think I even become you at times,
the chisel of my tongue shaving off
bits of uneven dialogue.
Is my presence not enough
must you also undress me?
Must you taste the perils and parallels?
Must you break what you cannot mend?
From the same heartless womb,
my unbirthable sister, my nemesis,
my shroud and dagger,
what would I be if not your puppet?
If not for darkness I might well be empty.
Can one ever rise above
the ravages of nature and nurture?
Should I wear my mother’s face?
What of my father, is it his mouth
that I lie die in when I chance to sleep?
Must I guard against all possibility,
those traces which I know to be filth?
Is there even a person underneath?