Left to Your Own Devices

You quip that
You don’t do things
Lightening fast like me
But eight months
Is far from fast
You don’t do things at all
Unless they have coalesced
Into a crisis
Unless you are surrounded by
Brown vomit
Coughing up your blood
Unless you are adversely affected
By the consequences of your behavior
And by then
It’s always too late
I have already suffered
Taking the fall for your inaction
And I suffer further
As I place the shattered mirror
In front of your face
Cut by the glass
In the process
And you
You would die
If left to your own devices
And connected to you
I might then die inside

©2015 by Loolwa Khazzoom. All rights reserved. No portion of this article may be copied without author’s permission.