There are pieces of torn tissue scattered around the bedroom.
A head board; the head to a nonexistent bed frame
askew in the corner.
The afternoon sun is brilliant for December,
unusually warm for these parts.
I am standing in the suns reflected haze,
such strange bedfellows these past few days.
My ragged soul speaks to me:
"There is nothing here for you anymore."
A death, silent and shocking, mocks me.
I am doing my leaving Las Vegas thing,
to try and turn it all off.
My body speaks in a foreign tongue:
"There is nothing here for you anymore."
I am not well.
It’s a long way off,
breaking the cycle, of this despondent spell.
My bitter anguish screams:
"There is nothing here for you anymore."
So it seems,
your lies, intricate, exacting, told well,
are truly a perfect product.
Every fiber of my broken being screams:
"There is nothing here for you anymore."
Why can't I bring myself to leave?