Le temps détruit tout

                    Twins, sealed missives impossible to open,
men’s appeals will expire before consciousness
can comprehend what sins my wet lips conceal,
sloth-toed petitioners show facsimile
convictions on failed transmissions atrocious
to behold, façades and spirits wail, broken

                    as thick fingers maraud what tongues have broken,
every wide orifice an inn open
to host those tasteless guests who trade consciousness
for a quick glimpse of what my face must conceal,
the only secret here a facsimile
oracle laid on flesh made more atrocious

                    whenever questioned by them, such atrocious
inquisitors, my hope’s door splintered, broken
under such underwhelming eyes fired open
just to sight some evidence their consciousness
fails to cause to appear, since where I conceal
my fear I keep my ideal’s facsimile

                    as well—a fantasy—a facsimile
of what I most want but feel too atrocious
to ever let myself have, clay bells broken
to dust in those rare moments I dare open
my mouth and sound him, manifest consciousness
to living truth the husband my hands conceal

                    as much as they form, killing him to conceal
my destruction of such love facsimile,
copy, and prototype kindle, atrocious
before made, before my sin will leave broken
any man I let in, since if I open
these floodgates my heart will spill, my consciousness

                    will crumble and resemble unconsciousness,
my strength will be rinsed in tears my sins conceal,
so I must write my Self a facsimile
any who see me will read as atrocious,
men repelled by ferocity, not broken
pottery cauterizing wounds looks open,

                    flaming earth where I find myself most open,
                    burning off kisses strangers laid to conceal
                    a history whose stains make me atrocious.