i read the ovid and the sappho and try to pretend i don’t see myself reflected in every poem achilles and patroclus rip apart my chest and heart and i try to hide that their love [their tragedy] has left me bleeding
i go home and memorise auden’s lullaby in the safety of midnight and my bedroom and i never recite it to anyone but i hold it close to my heart and keep it there
i’m not a tragedy yet but there’s still time
who’s to say if i guard my copy of howl a little too closely it’s just a book but the pages and the words have sharp edges and they’re dangerous
i have to hide from the open passion, from the naked light of their pure love of their impure love of their gentle emotions that ripped apart relationships and took lives
if i don’t see that passion in myself am i lying or just not looking hard enough
if i distance myself to examine the meter i can shift the magnifying glass away from introspection? if i talk about rhyme scheme and enjambmemt can i avoid myself?