Here I am,
living in the space between
truth and reality, fleshing
out fact and fiction.
Honestly, honesty doesn't
always mean accuracy.
Symposium of grief and
all its little tear soldiers,
running down your face,
fleeing the battlefield before
the war's even begun.
I wish you would stop.
Bringing logic into this,
that's so like you, like
logic does any good when
I'm like this.
Why do you get like this?
I don't know. Ask God.
He has a very sick sense
of humor.
I'm getting ahead of myself.
I'm getting beyond myself.
I'm getting tired. I'm getting
so tired, darling.
Erasing myself from history,
not that hard. The only mark
I ever made was on myself,
young and stupid on the cold
bathroom floor, begging God
to throw me a crumb.
I don't remember everything
from those years. Now when
I think of blurriness, I think
red.
Jesus. It hurts to write this.
I tried explaining it to you
once. I tried to tell the truth,
but it wasn't the right one.
What is your truth?
Do you really want to know?
I could spend the rest of my
life writing about this. I hope
I don't.
Is this even a poem?