behind my eyes, lies the story of “We”
keep turning pages, I beg you.
no need to re-read.
you don’t hear me though.
the first chapter was always your favorite
so you flip back,
creases form,
pages rip,
you don’t give a fuck: You Flip Back.
re-read. re-register. re-analyze.
re-loading the pistol of memories no longer significant
just to shoot sound,
because our potency has long been absent.
you’re on your knees now
frantically breathing false hope: CPR style
into memories: lifeless.
expired.
my lack of pity for you is my salvation
but my hatred of you, will be my downfall
armed with understanding, eyes closed:
i let self-awareness be the dawn that both birthed and baptized me.
i reached behind my eyes
and slowly torched that book of “We”
you screamed “Blasphemy!”
i screamed because fire burns.
my once befriended
once controlled Fire caught wind,
and rode side-saddle, dignified
to the mental library inside, where my other books reside
cursed burning lips, pursed
eyes wide open,
the flames kissed my anthology.
and now,
i am left with nothing but ashes.
ashes.
these ashes are what I Flip Back to.
these ashes birthed this poem,
these ashes gave yield to the realization that the burning of one book,
prompts the rising of another.
- dennica pearl//The Book of "We"
poem: inspired by an asshole.
photos: taken by a soulmate.
rebirth.
