A certain kind of exile

by prasanna   Jan 29, 2022


I, too, tire of the yearning, blue-violet flames licking
beneath the skin, waiting for either your kerosene touch, or
warm breath on the nape of my neck, to fan it into
an unforgiving inferno | an ending / a beginning.

Am I to preface this acknowledgement with an apology?
I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
I’m sorry—I am kindling for all the wrong reasons,
I’ve succumbed to my desires, split the apple in half,
leaving you one-half as a holy offering,
and devoured the other half.

I’m hungry—for connection, I’ve wanted to feel as warm as
the salt-wind above the summer sea, but I, too,
starved myself of this.

In meticulous fashion, I’ve authored the manifesto to my own hurt;
absence sunk its teeth in me, shook me like prey in the mouth of a feral dog,
and I dressed the wounds with your remnants, letting it fester.

Love has its multitudes, and I—you.

I know of you, as an artist / poet / creator / the kindest person / the one who wounded me,
above all, my whole heart.
You know this—I know this,

I cannot give air to an ‘I love you’ , the finality of it horrifies me.
I’m of little use to the world, and the little I can offer won’t suffice.
I worry, you’d peak behind the curtains, and the sight of what you’ll
find would appall you.

So offer me the kindness of letting me name you,
I want the world to know
what maimed me.

* P&Q doesn't support white space, so here's a link to how the poem was originally formatted: https://i.imgur.com/EJ03gZV.png

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