maybe I’ll write about the things
I want nobody else to know about
in code
long after I get home –
or maybe
time will burn the pages of my diary
make me ozymandias,
and sand and hate will clear my name
from everything and everyone I made
to make way for birch trees and the wheat
field behind your house
and open skies when we drive
I haven’t decided if I want to remember us
or if I want the fire that robes these mountains
or the brandy on your mouth
to wipe my mind clean and absolve me –
maybe death is a metaphor here
either way
maybe I want you to kill me
as much or as little as you’d like
-Allēna
Leave a Reply