I know what it is to be a weapon, dangerous
in theory, accepted and forgiven in practice. Your mouth, wet electric, a soft target for aching bones, a feast for hungry hands, it's almost as if we never spoke. as if your face was only meant for silence. I never called myself the hunter, only ghost left ruined by the body's rush. It's a war I don't want to wage and yet here we are- you the bystander, the city burning, the soldier and the monk looking on, I know what it is to be both, the passenger to some ancient devil's gunshot, the pulsing bacterial beat of a dying king, if only for a moment. To be the neighbourhood after the riot. Both sides of the tape. The body on the street and the ghost, weeping into the night.
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Michael CormackMichael Cormack was born and raised in Liverpool, England, where he has recently returned with his American wife after living and travelling in Central Europe. |