Inheritance
A brush paints all over our histories, entwined, wrapped, and completely detestable, it was inevitably tragic that I would tremble upon your lip, and you would follow along, giving in, aware of the crime, enticed by the sin, embraced in love. I wrote a letter about it, which I have burned, then I wrote a poem, which I have recited in my mind, then I sung a song, which you will hear for centuries, and now I write again, a letter, to say goodbye.
Grotesque again, for I have talked with an admiration that is not befitting of me, but there is sedition in my brain that is not tolerable, there is something within me that is sick and wrong, but in you, in you it all exists and comes back to me, and envelopes me, and holds me dearly, and I cannot shake the feeling, the feeling of growth that within me feeds. I loved you at the wrong time, and now we both pay a price too enormous to ignore, and I cannot say, and you cannot state, what will happen from this moment on? Can I tell what I have learned? What I have imagined? That one could walk away from this life, and create another one, where one is not known, expected, schooled, made, and can instead exist in the comfortable stillness of joy and survival. There, you could hold my hand and laugh, and I could follow you wherever you need, and there won’t be any wrongness, and I wouldn’t hate you, and you wouldn’t scream, and I could live, and we could all live.
I write to you to say that I am sorry and that I do not regret being sorry, which is very similar to what I once thought. That being with you was a mistake with strange, erratic consequences and that, to me, was the most adventurous and interesting moment. A creeping feeling surely shook in me, a caress lost from you did not compare to my own and vice versa, I said, in whispers, all over in secrecy, that you could have been a lover, most exquisite and terrifying, in another body, with another disposition, and another lineage. But blood runs among us, it has spilled all over these pages, the wounds are not closing, and the cure hasn’t been found, nor will it ever, and I want to say that I do not love you, but I do love what you did to me.
Do not lose faith, of which you have very little, and do not lose hope, of which you have an exceeding amount of staggeringly. I will not be there to hear your plea, but I can hear your prayer, and I’ll send all o the love that you want, to wherever, in any moment in time, and I will trail along your steps, a spirit trapped in chains, for the crime of killing, the rime of loving, and the crime of being born. You have nowhere to run with me around you, but I can, I can, will,, and must pay the price of daring.
