Suicide

The light burns me. 

The master’s unlatched the gates.

I’m on parole, he says.

He has me in his sights, always.

Pacing in his chambers

within a narrow shaft of light.

A sliver I’ve learned to exact along,

A perfected dance, a song

of meticulous, rhythmless tune.

He feeds me drops of control

buffers along the edge of shadows.

He knows I could never stay beyond him,

Not forever.

He taunts me with warm numbness

Familiar and still,

Like an orgasmic shrill.

The end. 

Life, his mother, a trickster. 

She’s beautiful with a black heart.

At least her son is truthful. 

Death is always.

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