It’s continually mis-forecast
though we’re delving into it, the passive hands
and you, with damning ‘drink me, loathe me, have this unto me,’
‘wrap me in yourself but please
don’t touch me.’

You don’t know how to wear me.
I’m the crease in your life’s page,
the paper-cut, the palmed change.
You covet the pretty things I plant,
“I, narcissus”, seeding in your arrogance.
I’m the name said in haste, bitten back in ardour,
dust blankets over rigid shoulders.
Metamorphose, oh bruise connoisseur!
(merely another shade of me, you won’t remember).
You remain ship-wrecked, post-liability.
not that I’m as faulty as I don’t pretend
I can’t be.