We are wrestling against Stygian tides
This agony is yours too,
Not just mine.

I see you see me with impassive eyes;
Such smothering obligations,
Your smothered sighs…

It makes me want to weep
To see us drown in this impasse.

The rocks tire of turning,
The ravens grow hoarse, screaming
You are not my mother;

And I, a graceless archer, live
By slaughtering birds at night,
And burying corpses by day.

Laughter floats like a mirage
Hovering above us like doves.

You say
I hate you.


But I hate myself more.