I crawl amongst the pages
of memory.
A voice calls me back,
again and again,
nausea clings to me.

A deadlock of guilt,
heavy chains 'round the past.
The words,
the looks,
everything between.

I don't want to believe
I have tainted
my lifesource.

I will run from you
with your twisted paintings,
your poison paintbrush,
your shadow palette,
your lying canvas.

Here - complete,
there - in pieces.
I can't define 
where the fractures end
and the porcelain begins.

I gag at 'together',
I spit at all shared.
I've been blessed 
with pure love
and yet you try to replace it.

If I could I would rip
the pages from their bindings,
myself from what binds me
to you.
But your voice calls me back,
again and again,
and I wish I could say
goodbye,

be evanescent.