The point of confusion lies
here.
Right.
Here.
Look, I can almost touch it.
The whys and hows,
the ifs and what ifs form impregnable moats around
my brick of a brain.
And I allow it.
I sit back and watch,
an old lady at an opera.
What broke inside of me the last time
I touched you?
I don't remember-
that is, I've forgotten.
And whose face is that
imprinted inside of my eyelids?
When it's sunny out I close my eyes
and see it outlined in fire red.
Go on.
Go on and hit me.
I invite you.
Remember what happened
the last time?
How your mouth and eyes
simultaneously screamed in rage
as you dove at me
clawing?
You ripped my lips from my face that night,
my eyes from their sockets
so I could never again see
the curious red face.
I want to be able to say I fought back,
hurled a good firm punch
or two-
but I can only lie to you in the space
you've created special for me
and my insanity,
and I am no longer there.