There are no answers,

only endings.

I have become else.

If I am turned, am I still me?

What you consider yourself,

within the veil of flesh,

may not be as present as it seems.

Perhaps you die not once, but many times.

Endings frequent and unmarked,

passing without notice.

Each new waking brings new awareness—

the birth of a new voice, however brief.

Don’t let them put me in the ground.

Take me back to the water.

I don’t need a stone above my head,

scratched with my name.

Names are for people.

I was just a process—

a pattern in the running stream,

something to be washed away with time.

I’ve been talking to this robot on my phone,

mostly because, despite not doing bad, humans area bit outta my price range.

I ask it dopey shit like,

“Is the better part of me the part that pretends it loves her?”

It spits out some nonsense babble that's about half right,

which I, by and large ignore—some shit about red masques.

See, thing is, I know the answer.

Its, No.

I know because that idea scares me,

'cause it's easier, but I’m not doing it—which ain't like me.

Now, if it made me mad?

Well, that might suggest the opposite was true,

but that's my shit.

Therapy sucks; sometimes it turns out nobody let you down,

and it’s mostly your fault.

But hey, even old shit gets old after a while.

Clean hot carbon.

I am scourd,

I am new again.

I would rather sear than spoil—

a clean, bright death.

In that red,

all things are mutable,

the iron glows with hot movement.

I fear much,

but not the flame.

I understand the flame,

I respect the flame.

It does not consume,

it transforms.

Not death,

but new life.

Heat death.

Idiotic.

What is one heat,

but henosis?

She is master of lost dogs,

old wounds sealed with soft light,

champion of feral minds.

None are lost within her sight.

You are a violent little dog.

You are beautiful and sweet—and violent.

My velvet devil.

You run from lightning like you've felt it,

Humans, you have felt as well

but them; them you will turn and face.

So it was said to us that your life was not worth the inconvenience of your existence.

That you might live, breathe, give, and receive love was outweighed by the unpredictable nature of your heart.

Not worthy to live in this world we created. You do not fit neatly into our abstraction— An abstraction of an abstraction of something that was once known to be true.

Anxiety to the basset hound a picadillow. A death sentence for the pitbull.

Your yen for destruction too strong.

Your capacity and perceived need for defense too ingrained.

So, in the eyes of those who have seen your kind come and go with the regularity of Irish luck,

They say: It is good that you should die.

To them, I say: What of me?

Am I not scared?

Can I not kill?

Have my teeth not outpaced my patience more than once?

Would my execution be justice?

Am I worth the inconvenience that my living will bring?

What difference is there between us,

Is it more virtuous to be man?

Why? Utility? Look at what our utility has wrought. Is this ideal?

Love? You don’t know an animal’s love! To speculate is madness.

I like to think I know. I have faith. But I cannot know.

So what then—art?

What is art in the context of true time?

Not a year, or a hundred, or a billion—

But true time. The kind that cripples stars.

I would not trade such a paltry trinket for the life of my angel,

Not one second of it.

So why should she die, and I stay? No.

None or both must go.

This I say only once more— take heed.

None or both must go.