sand

it must be your fault. 

three quotes I’ve been ruminating on recently: 

1. “I rejoice that things are as they are” – ash wednesday, t.s. eliot

2. “I have been half in love with easeful death” – ode to a nightingale, john keats

3. “to sleep, perchance to dream” – hamlet, william shakespeare

your fault. 

it must be YOUR FAULT. 

you are no nautilus shell,

you are no evidence of intelligent design 

no sign nor tell

no shrine nor hell 

OH, HELL! 

I rejoice that I have been half in love with sleep 

and half in hate with dreams 

I condemn that which shows me visions of rolling tides

and worship that which pulls me under 

I maintain that I can swim through the haze

things are as they are, and

IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT

I sleep, perchance to dream of easeful death,

whose nose is crooked from clenched fists 

and whose hair is kept short so it can’t be used as a noose 

limbs shaken loose

and we have a truce, me and him,

him and I 

I tell him I’m spiralling like a shell 

and he tells me 

I am no evidence of intelligent design 

I tell him to go to hell in the hopes he takes me with him 

sun rises and curtains are drawn and I know 

he refused. 

I half rejoice that things are as they are 

and half condemn them 

at night I see other worlds from the comfort of warm oblivion 

the life I’m living in,

this distant meridian

YOUR FAULT 

I rejoice that I am blessed with this respite most nights

I condemn that daytime bleeds cold, bright blood 

in comparison 

to sleep, perchance to feel a oneness with absence

impermanent 

as it is known by all things

AND IT MUST BE YOUR

in dreams I plant seeds 

and sow them for my own destruction

may it be kind when it comes 

and he, of course, promises nothing but utter wholeness 

or a gaping lack thereof. 

in love, in admiration, in infatuation with the drug that is feeling alive but not alive 

in hate, in abhorrence, in overwhelming loathing with the gasping airlessness of 

waking up the same 

aware, that is. 

but things are as they are, and 

you are not that which nurtures,

that which turns a cheek up to receive thanks 

I have seen waves to break the backs of riverbanks

and storms to weather tanks

no fears nor ranks

no tears nor angst 

can merge my two warring halves over that 

liminal space turned inevitable destination 

give chase to that which chases me 

turn face to that familiar bend, 

those hollow man’s eyes, 

those hands with pain’s end 

and with sorrow’s own sieve 

I tell him it is his fault I’m still here

dreaming

he tells me to wake, 

perchance

to live.

12/22/24 10:30pm