you swore you’d stay? Pinky promised to stick
around, that you wouldn’t even let a muscle twitch
even the width of a strand of hair away from me?
How you vowed to always speak the language
of my being, in some peculiar way always yours,
that choked-up, too familiar vernacular of us?
But fluency is so short-lived, my darling.
Tongues can only twist to remember so much.
I still can’t decode what sort of tragedy
came to be born in the space between your lie
and the time that followed it.
All I know is that you don’t speak me anymore.
So untie your tongue. You are unworthy.
I am a dead language, something buried
in the earth, unspoken and fossilizing
to be made holy again. I am the rotting pages
of a gospel hidden from the cruel hands
of ancient, nameless persecutors.
I used to be worshipped.
Untie your pinky finger from mine,
still intertwined in that stillborn summer night.
We don’t mean anything anymore.
Untie me from you, I demand it.
I’ll watch from afar, with graveyard eyes,
(more empty socket than sight) as you unravel us,
mute blasphemy, until all that remains is
what cannot be translated,
what cannot be put into words,
what cannot be uttered out loud.