The Suicide Of Turing Poem by Jordan McLaren

Red, round thing,
you wink at the mirror.
It winks back, a flash of white.

Second one, I cannot touch you -
yet I defy, what defiance I can offer;
and I do touch,
and I hold you up,
an asp to my breast.
Your two eyes stare into mine:
one, that flash, a spot of white
on your taut flesh;
the other, a bleeding wound
that leaks the clear juices
of your vacant vitality.
You contain nourishment
not for me -
yet you fill a void, your crimson heart,
in mine;
mine emptied by yearning, years
and use.

There is a man in the mirror, now,
as you bob at my neck,
fangs dripping.
He is almost familiar:
an aged shadow,
broken and spoiled.
I look you in the eye again,
and remember who he is,
and the reason for your being,
and that blinded, crying eye.

And I steel myself.
My lips feel your bite,
fangs sink into soft flesh.
My heart aflame again,
your bite perfects me,
finishes me.
No soul expired,
but cogs are quiet;
the whirring stops.
I close my eyes,
and of darkness dream.