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Kitt Sep 2023
They ask you again and again,
What happened? Tell me the whole story
And you repeat yourself
Each time thinking it’s been received
But then a new ear, a new clipboard,
And they make you tell it again.

“What happened” becomes more important
Than “what’s happening now?”
Because they care about the mechanism
More than the injury

So what will they do when you go radio silent?
When your heart breaks do you need to rehash how he hurt you,
Again and again for each secondary witness?
At what point does the sordid story end
And the sequel begin?
Or will the pursuit of healing,
The treating of trauma,
Forever be defined by
the mechanism of injury?
Kitt Sep 2023
What is this?
A memory? A dream?
A memory of a dream?
Early morning passes in serenity,
birdcalls slowly replacing the patter of precipitation
as hazy sunbeams drift lazily past the curtain.

Exhale a steady sigh out the cracked window. your breath,
an ephemeral cloud for just a moment,
is highlighted against the garden
and your shoulders fall.
The balloon of breath swells again in your chest, filling the cavity with peaceful Sorrow.

When did She first look your way, blonde locks falling into Cerulean eyes?
When did he brush past you and send waves of butterflies swarming your insides?

Maybe this is better.
Maybe it's better to see the world clearly, without the pretty impediment
of rose-colored glasses.
Maybe it's better to never bite the apple, for what might you lose
if it has turned?
Better to never taste crisp, cool fruits if you can
save your milk-teeth from being lost in ice-chilled flesh.
1 March 2022 - “five question prompt”
Kitt Sep 2023
Teeth sink into cold flesh
Piercing thin skin
The crunch of triumph rings:
devour me whole
Leave nothing behind
but the rotting, browning, sugary core
and seeds with a tiny drop
of cyanide
(if ever, in case, the apple bites back).

Break me down to my barest pieces
and root shiftlessly through the rubble
clean house, so they say, and getting
ready for spring
Rid yourself of the taste of me.
Kitt Sep 2023
Part I

There are parts of me I will not give you, Stranger;
But these parts are not many.
I have always been comfortable in vulnerability.
Or perhaps, I have weaponized it—
To destroy not kingdoms but boundaries:
Confuse the prey and ****** the predator,
until they are one and the same.

Part II

But if I expose my soft underbelly to anyone,
Can it still be considered vulnerability?
How must it feel to be scarred
Again and again
Battered and wounded—
Yet the flesh never hardens against incursion?
To have so much weakness so plainly to see
Easy to touch, even more to make bleed
Bear witness against the truth
Yet shatter all of the doubts—
What lies in the middle, then?
What will the law of averages reveal?
Is that soft underbelly truly so honest and real
Or is it another form of camouflage
Designed to mislead
As the fanfare protects the executioner?

Part III

The armor of insight is deception
Deception that strives to please
For distracting the audience is crucial
To being this kingdom to its knees

So in revealing the war strategy to her enemy
Can a commander be

Part IV

Just who is the enemy, and why does he lurk about?
GR, if you’re still here, don’t read into this one too much. It’s not about you.

The line about the fanfare refers to The Art of Worldly Wisdom by Baltasar Gracián, circa the mid 1600s
Kitt Sep 2023
Purify through fire and fury
Scourge away imperfections
But in doing so, sear away the layers of myself
That I never knew I would miss
Until now, with raw baby flesh left
Pink, bubbling burns.

Sit down, little fool;
These words are not meant for you
Your little ears are too soft and sensitive
For such a scalding reality.
Kitt Sep 2023
it’s strange;
whenever I think of you
(which is often, I must admit)
I can’t help but smile to myself
just a little bit.
I think I might be in trouble.
Kitt Sep 2023
Our mother, Gaia, shall never die
Though for us I cannot speak
When Terra does turn her back to our kind
Our might shall seem so meek
Roaring flames do lick her skin
While Chaos’ storms do rage
But Mother Earth will retreat within
And turn to a blank new page.

Zeus will fall when the skies go black
His wife, Hera, to follow when families dissolve
Once the gods fall there’ll be no way back
And hubris will be our final resolve.
Chronus may falter when there’s nobody alive
To observe the passage of hours
When the clocks have all stopped,
Gears unturning under toppled clock towers
No grandfathers left to chime.
But Gaia will live on in sleep so bereft
Long after we’re lost to time.

With no men to wage wars, Ares will fade
Athena too as innovation runs dry
Aphrodite may weep when there’s no love to be made
Hermes, when there’s nowhere to fly
And though our sun will live past our end,
There’ll be no chariot of gold
No homes, no hearths for Hestia to tend
And no music for Apollo to behold

We have long lost one of the faces
Of Artemis, the huntress under moonlight’s reign
And civilization (so-called) now erases
Pan, the wild god, and his sacred domain
What next, I now ask, shall we bid our farewell?
What aspect of humanity lost?
As we stumble along nearer to Hell
Whom shall be the next forgot?

But fear thee not, for life’s most precious gift
is the transience, the temporal nature of Earth
All will change, all will shift
and perhaps a different Cosmos may birth.
Once the stardust settles, a new something to arrive
And we shall perhaps there meet once again
Tied by fresh cords of fate to share new lives.

And all the while, she’s waited for us
Watching and loving those souls immortal
Taking new forms now from different dust
She’ll rejoice and rebirth the primordial
They will rise and then fall and eventually make way
For the pantheon of a new universe to arise
Perhaps not all will look the same--
But close enough for essence to find.
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