THE NIGHT

A man takes a paper bag from the corner of the room,
Empties its contents,
Vomits in it,
And returns it to the corner.
The ***** dries in the cavity of the now-used and filthy sac.
Another man does the same,
And another,
And another,
Until the bag is full to bursting,
But only just unto.

I am that bag.
And I am meant to contain that which is put in me.  
If I cannot, I am deemed weak and useless.  
I am disposed-of.  
I then become nothing.

Of course, when I *****, it is in the dark,
In a toilet,
On the street,
In my bed.
And my ***** is not words
Or feelings
Or secrets
Or hidden desires bloomed into violence and mortification.

It is tears and rank, vile wetness.  

THE DAY

There is a clear day.
So clear that the sound of a bell travels faster than the speed of light,
For the light slows a little to bask in its own warmth,
Bathing in the emptiness and tranquility of that moment.

And in that moment,
I hear his voice before I see his figure.
He tells me that I may trust him,
That he is not afraid of my anguish,
That he will fight with me,
And will ask others to fight for me,
When he, or I, cannot.