what a tangled web we weave

glazed eyes in the wake of the night
shreddings fall from grace
deftly yielding a carving blade
like a Fate
hands holding still a bar of soap
embedding lies confidently construed
at sixteen that will follow til
much after twenty-two.
you’ve carved a path, a slippery slope
on which you’ve fallen, your head hurt
your arm, your heart, and my heart
on which
you’ve lost all knowledge of what
it means to walk with one head
not ten
when did you get so good at
make believe and pretend?
i know, you know, that
any heart that is on fire
gives life to a smooth tongue
without thought ready to conspire
anything will do in order to convince
yourself, them, and poor me
treading a path secure, dry
as you walk on broken crutches tied
to the edges of your crumbling mind.
(in the name of love,
which knows no space or time
not even love’s light can erase
the most dark and dingy lies.)
and when i ask you, i am asking myself
when you can hold a bar of soap that still
how long has it really been?
and when it will eventually slips
will you still know who you are?

and if it never leaves your hand’s grip
and you’ve gotten your heart’s desires
how long will it be before
that slippery path becomes your fire?

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