Supercut

I do a lot

of editing.

Splicing our stories

in my mind,

 .

trying to recreate

some sense of meaning

or normalcy. But what is lost

with knowledge

 .

cannot be regained.

 These stories haunt.

.

We age.

We depreciate.

We feel the weight

 .

of the burden, of what

.

knowing cost

the both

of us.

 .

Our smiles, our sadness, dripping

through long nights.

Memories that mix

with salt,

water and

a bit of blood.

 .

Dreams that leak,

from eyes

that saw such love,

such horror.

 .

I hear your screams

each night.

 .

The flashbacks, the unspoken

words from your heart

demanding a justice

 .

that was never delivered

and who’s responsible?

 .

We are all responsible.

I am laid bare.

 .

The cycles

of cycles

of cycles

of stories

 .

Relived over.

Experienced over.

Screamed over.

 .

Cried over.

Broken over.

Bled over.

. 

Bent over.

Destroyed over.

Crucified over.

 .

And the repetition.

Algorithmic in its

prediction power

 .

and as horrific and ungodly.

 .

Splicing that cuts

through days

that play out

in Jobian tribute

 .

to a foreign god,

 .

or a cynical joke

from the Devil

Himself.