Conspiracy of Love by Shazia Hafiz Ramji

 

Conspiracy of Love

Shazia Hafiz Ramji
 

for those who are clean and sober

The problem with trying to one-up yourself 
is not that you might die by your own hands, 
but that you’ll be able to justify why
without feeling anything. When you were
in withdrawal, alone in your bed, the salt 
from the sweat pressed on the mattress was testimony 
to what you allowed: “I am Satan, because I deal 
in language.” The next day, you had stopped
shaking, you went to work secular and clean. 
There were no other addicts and you didn’t speak.
You know that lies look beautiful, unified, all parts 
clicking together, lighting up your eyes. They are old 
technology made new, sleek and gleaming 
in crevasses like fog rolling around Renfrew. 
You’re awake today to see it, because you’ve been 
brave. You’ve noticed your friend has listened 
and told you very boring things — not dismissed 
them as errands. This is the task you will have to do, 
soon enough, remembering all the ways your mind 
moved — to write yourself into what you want 
to call Conspiracy of Love. When the guy from Tinder 
said hi to you in school, it didn’t strike you 
that he might know you from the internet. You didn’t 
remember who he was, not even when he called you 
by your fake name. All you thought was, “I can’t
do this again. I want to be clean. I want to be Shazia.” 
If you end this poem here, it might make sense, 
but we both know this kind of work is occult. 
So, you have to ask me: How do you want to finish 
this poem? You have to leave it there. That way
at least it’s not about you anymore.