The Logic of Curses

They named me beloved in the tongue of ash,

draped me in gold spun from promises

no one meant to keep.

I walked through Delphi backwards,

spoke riddles to oracles

until they forgot the future.

Even Fate blinked.

I slept with a knife under my tongue—

called it logos.

Every kiss I gave was a theorem:

prove me wrong

or bleed trying.

Diogenes offered me a lamp.

I swallowed it.

Said, Let there be dark.

What is a curse

if not clarity

sharpened too long

on the bone of desire?