I occupy a throne carved from the cold geometry of my own logic
while the world outside is a messy soup of unrefined impulses
I am the architect of the high wall and the heavy gate
observing the common friction from a distance that feels like a clean blade
you think you can inhabit the rooms of my intellect with your soft hands
but my inner critic is a king who refuses to grant you the keys
he sits in the dark center of the brain
and mocks the way you breathe
he finds the flaw in the curve of your hip
and the stain on the silk
I am a prisoner of my own excellence
measuring the vacuum
where a heart used to beat with a silver ruler
I watch you move in the dim light of the hallway
a collection of heat and blood that doesn’t fit the blueprint
the dawn is a gray threat creeping over the lip of the horizon
bringing the noise of the striving back to the center of the bone
I lie beside you and feel the distance like a canyon of dry ice
you are a masterpiece of biology and a footnote I refuse to read
but I am the only one who can see the jagged reality behind the seams
the clock is a heartbeat that belongs to a man who will never rot
I find a strange and jagged comfort in the refusal to be moved
let the weather do its worst and the calendar go blank
I am the only one left to tell the story that I have already sold to myself
the end is not a peace but a permanent sharpening of the gaze
the throne is made of iron
and the king has no intention of leaving
I am the vacancy that will eventually swallow the whole goddamn city
the light is a luxury I can no longer afford to see.
The Sovereignty of the Scorn
The Sovereignty of the Scorn