quentin compson

i smashed it
cutting my thumb in the process
but it keeps tick, tick, ticking
by the seconds. minutes. days it’s been.
everything is in a cycle of decay
except my virginity. chasing skirts,
did you ever have a sister?
something to devote your life to?
if only i had a mother,
mother, even the rain can’t wash
this away, the veil cannot hide.
“father, i have committed incest.”
but what’s the point? non sum.
the clock strikes the beginning
and the end of the hour
and yet, it’s been years.
with the nostalgia of honeysuckle
i’ve seen my shadow in the river,
and i may just slide in.