My throat is full of untimely secrets
So many admissions I need to throw up
And paint his wooden floorboards with
Because that’s where I used to find my voice
Lying next to his stacks and stacks of paperbacks
And scrunched up t-shirts
And now the only time I talk loudly
is when he lets me sleep in his room surrounded by
Old rock and roll posters half torn down in adolescent rages
And his grandfather’s books with their fractured spines and ripped out pages.
It is in the early hours
When he says to me
‘There are too many holes pierced into your body.
I think if I poured my love into you
It would just seep right through’
For once, silence is crucial.
Because I do not own enough replies to explain the fragility of my blood vessels when they understood what he meant.
It sent an electric shock through my entire ****** system and that was how my throat stopped shaking.
The need to uproot every good bad cruel volatile imploding exploding loving frustrated string of sentences left me after that.
I can’t go back to the semi and collapse on his floor anymore.
Lying down there has become lying everywhere.
And my voice box is no longer prepared for it.