kī anthony

i'm tired of caring. you, your consecrated archways, your
story-spinning whirligigs, the way you papier-mache together
cleavage and moustachioed bravado until someone ⁠— 
anyone ⁠— puts the sword through the magician's coffin. i'm
tired of poisons and poultices and precipices. i'm tired of 
unnecessary hand-wringing and necessary interventions. 
i'm tired of swinging at shadows you've conjured up,
puppet-master around a cauldron of sins and puppy-dog
tails. the trail of broken hearts you've left in your wake 
is a miracle in itself, you stepping lightfooted across the 
watery roil of souls more cursed than yours, or perhaps 
just less clever. i don't even think you're clever, just smart.
you know the difference. that tongue-twisting finger-licking
catastrophizing echelon, riding back through the portcullis
after victory in distant lands, that's what you want, isn't it?
i'm tired of caring. i'm tired of polishing your saddle and 
saving the baby's breath that crumples in your hoofprints.
let me take my gilded scissors to the heart of your tangled
wood and cut your hair while you sleep. it doesn't matter.