accountability, dead watson

you lose the 
privilege when
one leg folds
over, that which
you do not own.
spoils of a world
you create are
not to your
bidding. perhaps
you are compelled
by a secret
desire to imprint
a name on every
empty surface you
find, theirs and
never fully
yours, never
committing, never
g iving fully
always wanting to
be an exception,
a side story like
a hushed secret
reserved for
lonely hours of
the night, and
your subjects you
keep like a cage
of wolves. i am 
not one to speak
for you but by
way of decisions
through years you
mark a pattern.
accountability,
dear watson, and
take only as much
as you give.
though i only say
this because i
want what you
hold but refuse
to honor. i could
give so much more
and that
including all of
me.