I’m the thin ice on the lake that you walk on.
You walk on. I call you. There isn’t an answer.
I am the canker that grows into cancer.
I am the acres of land lost to vandals.
I am the woman that you couldn’t handle.

I am a bracelet of terrible feelings.
I am the dead point of grandfather’s pendulum.
I am the doldrums your sailors must hazard.
I am the razor that murders you, Darlin’.
I am the woman not begging your pardon.

I am the full moon that tempts you to emptiness.
I’m the attempt of the noon sun to lull you.
I am the tawny owl gnawing her talons.
My talents are wanton. But I wanted you.
I am the woman that you cut loose.

But you’re no good.
          And you’re not god.
The dog is gone.
          The bone’s been gnawed.
The doing is done.
          Your going was awful.

And so: the jig is up.
          Ergo: the plan is fucked.
My lamp is lit.
          I spit on my palms.
I lay out my maps.
          I tallow my wicks.

The thick of it,
          I’m kicking through.

And I am sick of you.