I did that
(like a psychopath’s confession)
I did the thing no one else could do.

They peruse
(my wounds burn with victory)
They consider peculiarity
and pluck kaleidoscope petals
(it was a drowned firefly dream)
After circumnavigation it returns
a deflated sigh of ash.
(I made something deep and raw and alive)
The echo purrs limp and dead
it has forgotten that thing I did
(ink is the blood of a parchment heart)
All that remains are rotted bones
familiarity to please blind eyes
(asleep but never dreaming)

I didn’t do that
(like the inklings of a child)
I did the thing no one else could do.