Knives: The Martyrdom of Saint Bartholomew
I look at you – you blind me.
No way to square this circle.
I woke up in India without a passport.
Blood and guns and knives and
Women dead
and men.
All there is to look forward to,
humiliation and death.
It's inside me,
inside you.
Our new love.
The shadow.
The big C.
The end of the world.
Have you ever really looked at the sun?
I mean really looked?
Fear becomes you.
Frozen. Immaculate.
Standing alone at the precipice
and overlooking the arctic wastelands
of pure terror.
Stilled by dread,
drugs quiet.
And then finally – deafened by
the sharpening of knives.
How could you?
It's me.