When I was a bomb,
I destroyed though
I longed to build; instead
I gutted and burned and
swept away.
When I was a bayonet,
I couldn’t imagine how
I had happened — how
I’d found myself
at barrel’s end, how
I stuck, how I was freed
with a blast right after.
When I was poison
I slept uneasily, like an empty coffin;
when I was a guillotine,
I felt a breeze sift that hair
as it tumbled down.
I used to pretend to be
oblivious to myself as damage
but truth be told: it has always been
my entire being and life to be
utterer of death
in order to preserve myself…
so I weep and gnash my teeth
and wash my hands of
generations of stains,
all while
never moving from
my throne.
Dark Matter 