Forgive me for my retreat,      forgive me for how quick       I find
myself      lying slow on the bedroom floor.      More nights     than not      I pretend myself into a poet     even though I haven’t entirely      found the right words.     Did I tell you yet   that I am more wreckage     than warfare?   I couldn’t tell you     the last time     my tongue was a grenade    but surely these hands     have held the carnage.    Surely you understand    I am no poet     but     neither are you.   Then again,    who is?    Aren’t we all just    writing ourselves into     existence?    This language cannot hold    another me.    This language was not intended    to be misconstrued     between stanzas.   But,    how else can we study    each other?    How else could you know    that these words aren’t really mine   but I hold claim to them     anyway.   How else could you know   that this is not a real poem   but I bring it to war   anyway.