sometimes

I wish that I could get out of here, away from the dead thud of your approach.
You remanifest with a mouth full of flat line, nothing’s changed.

A man with the same nature about him, the same engorged rhetoric toward life
I wished to bury in my garden long before. 

A wound in the backyard, untraceable and
unremarkable.

Not of my heart but of Her Red Sea in which you reside now 
Only as blood. 
Buried along with my naked, along with my softness and my victim.

When all this is over, don’t look at me 
and expect to see the same person.