I can’t help but think
that this is it.
As the gold leaf page of dusk
and folds into night,
the post mortem will specify
But you know I know better,
Clothes taut from being over worn,
because you said they suited me.
Every letter I wrote,
I pray they were torn up
And I transcribed you into everything,
when there was a time and place for it.
That was the reason I couldn’t look at you.
The reason I left,
the reason I changed my name.
I fought off the family curse.
I killed off my old frame
in the coldest of blood.
It is but an amphetamine day dream
now and then.
It’s a pleasant thought
of pleasant times, of content
reservations, but it’s no surprise
that it all comes back around to haunt.
Leave me suspended,
leave me begging for rapture,
falling away from my attempted sibilance-
the kind I use to derive purpose from.
I’m saying this to you as a person,
but even I don’t think that is fair,
for it was I who attached the myth to you.
As soon as I called you
I knew I was making a mistake.
I hope in time you’ll see why.
I hope in time you’ll understand why I gave you that name.
And as post-mortem rolls into obituary,
rolls into last words, rolls into remembrance-
know that I gave you that name with best intentions.
There is a time and place for everything,
Just not this.
[Howl Davies is a student and aspiring writer from London. He is the creator of The Sounds Inside.]