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poetry/n/namesake.txt

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+Namesake
+2021-08-18
+
+***
+
+What am I supposed to make of myself, plural?
+I lie on my bed, wracking myself up into a whirl
+trying to rationalize
+myself, wise,
+self-sovereign individual,
+with this other person with equal claim to pilot my heart
+who claims to love the world
+but would sooner tear me apart.
+
+She rests inside,
+and no matter how long I writhe
+in bed
+in search of a dream unspilled,
+unsaid,
+no matter how many runes I draw in the air,
+I cannot banish her,
+cannot bade her on fair
+travel.
+How I wish I could,
+could render her dead,
+for I am long on the trail
+to unravel,
+entrails
+my last legacy
+as I succumb to egocide and perish in a heap.
+
+Self-sworn was my purpose,
+and yet
+night
+after
+night
+I dream of martyring myself in service
+of saving the lives
+of those who with I reside,
+entombed
+with all honors
+in crystal or ice.
+
+But instead of on eternal altar,
+I lie down
+on the carpet,
+mirror close by.
+Dorian's gray eyes
+stare back.
+Now Lethe is the one who wants to survive
+despite her atrocities,
+despite Three Years' genocide.
+And I,
+perfect, faultless, peak,
+find myself with no more to accomplish,
+just yearning to wind down, final commit, cease.
+
+But there is no Elysium.
+There is no carnal paradise,
+no Architect to beg to splice
+this dual-thorned personality.
+Lethe has her Sablade,
+self-made
+world
+ready to with her love unfurl,
+but I have no such salvation,
+no such definite endgame.
+
+What am I supposed to make of myself, plural?
+I don't want to cause harm, don't want to go feral
+and annihilate
+all that I've worked
+so hard to create.
+But I don't own this corpse,
+can barely control my limbs,
+hanging on to light so Lethe can't lock me within.
+
+***
+
+CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (c) Vane Vander