You took another’s name as your sobriquet,
A devised illusion of my creation.
Taught me that my likeness was a rare secret,
That destiny’s face was my sole protection.
You offered your condolences in pure vain,
Birthing delicate love tales of false and true.
Reminded me how my likeness feels nothing,
Grateful I can’t recall my loathing for you.
You wanted my monster to help me kill yours,
The kind that saunters in unholy places.
Ordered me to change your faith in destiny,
Full of second-hand prayers and half-mile graces.
Entry for the Blake Poetry Prize 2020.
Published: Medium
The Authortoria 