Fixation with I
Victor Terrien
The flash of hatred, a sudden bolt lighting up
the December sky. The clouds, the rain abandoning them.
Or is it the other way around? Events like these
until everything has the feeling of stale familiarity,
and goodbye is repeated on loop like a fading song.
You pushed me to this point; the moment
the door was opened the bolt descended.
You can blame the sun for heat
but you can’t blame it for the burn.
The reaction’s predictable, though that also means
you knew the ending before the plot was drawn up.
Who can be blamed? Both of us, you say. All of us,
the philosopher residing in my head whispers.
But in the gulf of my nightmares, I only blame myself.
I wake up with knots in my gut
each morning before work, and they only untangle
as the shifts dissolve into the sliver of night
in which I’m not pierced by arrows shot
from all angles. Tell me where I can look for healing, even if
it’s just a little room with a chair that won’t support my weight.
God abandoned me.
Or was it the other way around? Was it inevitable,
or did I work to create this? You see, I’m a creator. Does that
make me a god? If that’s the case, then we’re all higher beings.
Higher than what?
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