Because it is impossible to reduce you to scientific words.

Car que c'est impossible à vous simplifier aux mots scientifiques.

Light travels at
Three hundred million meters per second.
If I turned into a photon tonight
And flew away for nine or ten years,
I might escape the memories of you.

There is no difference
Between two years ago
Etching deep tracks in my skin
With a blade solid to the touch
Smelling of bitter metal
Joined soon with the similar reek
Of the most ancient of sacrifices
Welling from my split skin
And me tonight—as I pound out these words
On a battered laptop
It smells of nothing so much as dust and heated plastic
Yet it is the same

We all come to the point of letting go
Yet in our naivety we hold on
And in this battle with ourselves
Wounds are inflicted
Whether the choking upsurge of our bellies
Or the stinging springs hiding in the corners of our eyes
Or an oft-used blade tearing flesh
Worst of all—the wreckage of a soul
The battering of all things held dear
And yet we fight too much
Not to force the pain out
But to embrace it closer

There is nothing natural in this quest
To sink the talons of agony
Ever deeper in our hearts
Shake a burr loose
Yes then burn it to ash
But cling tight to smothering misery
The truth is that we’d hold to anything
Rather than face the storm outside
And see the past washed away
Yet while the storm may have no mercy
It has no malice
Nature is ever washed clean by the downpour

So we grow up and let go
And we see that emptiness
Isn’t always so bad

My eyes are beautiful, she says.
She must dig the haunted, empty look.

My smile is gorgeous, she says.
My tongue has felt those chips and nicks far too often to agree.

My arms look strong, she says.
I am surprised—she’s seen the scars.

My hands stir her, she says.
There is nothing elegant about them.

She loves me too, she says.
Even as we recall all the times I traumatized her.

She will never leave me, she says.
Dear God—that’s what I was afraid of.

She’d never do better than me, she says.
At that, I bite my tongue.

She doesn’t know what I see in her, she says.
And this, I think, is why we keep each other around.