You lie on this bed with no sheets, only ghosts
you touch your lips in movement,
you deliver words of an author unashamed of his own limitations.
You seek to erase what has been:
out of context – unimportant,
inside this body -- crucial.
Without hesitation, you let your words slip
and your crimes spill
and you still haven't left this bed.

The third re-enactment is a joke;
the lines you rehearse haven’t been yours in so long.