my sister she crafted me from the mud of melting bulbs,

founded me on the curve of Gaea’s hip; i, sickly fledge

swam past as her mouth bubbled sympathy, as she 

 

crushed motive beneath her feet. i am of the slated people, 

lolled between finery like a frantic beholding; lone, even 

as the forest chuckles. i have bottled pittance in a void,

 

seen it as they do, yet known only white. my sister, she

says that

                                                                                      i am a handlocked four, numbering

ideations

                                                                                      lest they come to fruition. i am a rolled-up

                                                                                      sleeve, disjointed like when we begged for

 

                                                                                     our father. our mother; like when our veins

                                                                                     served the needles, like when it stung. i am

                                                                                     prickly, hemorrhaged since birth; a guised 

 

                                                                                     child. Ares once cupped my cheek,

                                                                           pressed

                                                                                     a feathered welcome into my palm,

                                                                           mirrored

                                                                                    me. we met where we dissolved, together;

 

this is what he taught me-- call me obsolete, and i shall 

prevail still, i shall feed as the rain pelts on, as the 

concerto is frenzied, as deadness rules. i am of shuttered 

 

vision, of plain sight-- summoned by a dawned cry, a folly

of the mind. i am darkness, yet it is what i devour. i am 

pulled apart, yet not separate; desperation, you. it is i who

 

weeps at my own feet.