I hate sex. I hate what it has done to me,
and those I love.
we were made fools of with our animal hands
and our questioning. and now fail
in the mockery of orange light opening
in the windowsill.
I look to the bell jar, the blemish of the lily
like a spot on the lung, a paralysis of suffering.
everyone has forgotten me
that has touched me.
I fuse in the instant,
for an indifference to cruelty
too wounded for metamorphosis.
I’m going to live without you
shining weight of a rejected world
blue become of solitude, rather
a trace element
of what all my life I will remember,
“intense love always leads to mourning”.