claire.

[I really do mean it when I say I wish I could be Claire Underwood.]


If you do it just so,
you will have filled the space.
And that is what you aim for.

The mother of your indignation
will not trickle away
as you tear at her robes
weeping for absolution. No. If you do it
just so,
You will suckle your rage
into a lesson: you will craft it
to be subtle as mist, to infiltrate
like a drug, a secret;
as a frenzy beckons it to wildness,
you will say no
even as you cannot breathe.

It will kill you.
But any number of things will.

It's
predictable (if tiresome), necessary
(if cruel). Death is
not in your nature.
But if you do it right,
if you yank the leash
if you edge the mist just so,
your eyes (they always look broken)
will burn cool, movement
without spirit, strategy
sans indwelling:
Everything
is war. (It will kill you.
But any number of things will.)
You'll draw yourself upward,
pull in the air between your shoulders;
You will fill the space.
Your eyes cannot disregard the broken spots.
Your face will appear to soften
at these armor-chinks
as they wrench themselves wide
(they should've yanked the leash).
You will - motherly - watch them crumble.
You will look down
and remember the floor.

And, alone,
holding breath in the night,
you will tell yourself yes,
It's unhealthy. (not cruel.)
But sometimes,
the fuel you need
is flesh,
spent in the fire
you cannot release
as it burns you.
and you will you hold it up: a burnt offering
to a god you cannot name;
a penance
you could not afford
for that
which you could not spare.

It will kill you.
But any number of things will.