I could lay out all of my thoughts
on a rusty wire
for you:
all aligned,
waiting to be picked
poked
prodded
examined
rummaged through;
I could even give you a
magnifying glass
free of charge
to discard the remote possibility
that my thoughts aren't what they seem,
but what ******* good would that do?
I'll be exposed,
my thoughts will be torn and hanging
with only the remnants of who I believed
you were,
and who's going to collect the scraps
after you've gone?
I'll be a thoughtless vegetable,
after all.