Amy speaks to me sometimes,
reminds me of the losing game that I’m playing:
I’ve put in all my coins, gambled all I could call mine
and she shakes her head but keeps her silence.
There are no rules, she knows this
it’s all in or nothing,
and she watches me give everything.
I resurrect every ghost to make me bleed,
and tear open this skin for meaning,
but what is the value of hollowed bones and haunted dreams?
How many revolutions until your words lose your voice?
How many revolutions until the sun burns my hands away from your eyes
so you can finally see the light?
I lost the heart in a wager for yours
only to return with empty palms
and another phantom shackled in the mind
that patrols the lock-up, and the whip comes down
at every clink of ball-and-chain – no prisoner stands a chance to escape.
How odd that every lash on the prisoner,
you’ll find on my wrist, on my back, on my neck;
how odd that every movement is a punishment;
how odd that you don’t see the manacles
I’ve bound myself with.