Love Song

Your presence is like a genocide of another name, smells just as alkaline, destroys buildings, bombs towns, inherits futures simply by your lack of melatonin and surplus of good fortune only hiding your inadequacy. Your identity is suspect, your morals too, and on top of that somehow you think the panoptic stare isn't looking at you… but while you are insignificant and no one is defining your existence as the paradox of the paradigm of mankind's existence, you are a poet. Your lyrics are my oppression and my passion: your gimmicks. I am categorically privileged, American raised with an American life yet never to be misidentified as the dominant power. But all in the last hours it comes down to this: it is your life that has been a soliloquy and I have interrupted it. I hold this power and I savor it in my mouth, tasting the metallic blood-like hypocrisy of those who judge others without the fear that they live with. I judge myself and while I have no regrets something about your presence makes me want to peel off my skin and shave off my hair and offer my femininity, my ethnic identity, my beautiful eyes and the longevity of our memories at your feet. Your presence tortures me. You are not even here to cast the shadow of blurred photographs of yourself over everything that I do but somehow it is I that have halted your existence, helped you come undone. To what do I owe the honor of burning myself with a thousand dyings suns? Forget raising Cain, I raised you from the ashes of a long forgotten phoenix known as jealousy and hatred and love. It was not an extension of the colonial empire reaching out and pillaging the east, it wasn't sedition and I wasn't your acquisition, I broke you. Taking what I could and erasing what I couldn't. You are now a tabula rasa. You are now the graffiti of the world. No part of you is empty, no part of you is full. You have everything and nothing and until I've remembered your presence as a sweet reminder of things found-lost, lost-found. You will always be my genocide.