Knockout

Written: 2024

Lyse my name from your lips,
quip and slip back inside,
let yourself die a little more
pour by pour;
nineteen queen,
all ounces accounted for
and scorned,
an epigenetic aesthetic that burns
hot this time of year;
stress-test in your chest
and the rest is blistering,
precise and withering,
eyes belied by another transgression,
temporal regression,
a concession hereof,
and midnight has grown
hostile to our love.