Dull Pieces of Truth

You’re asking me what I want for breakfast and I’m telling you
about how when the worst thing happened, I didn’t even cry.
You’re handing me a receipt from the laundromat down the street
and I’m passing you a bundle of letters that I wrote to God when
I was fourteen and scared. You’re passing me the milk after you drip it into your
coffee and I’m half laughing about the psychiatrist’s office and how there’s
actually a couch and it’s made of blue tweed. You’re trying to do the normal things
and I am throwing up dull pieces of truth onto our kitchen table. I can’t lie anymore.
These are the things I’ve done and they’re mostly sad. These are the places I’ve been
and they’re mostly awful. This life has woven itself into the notches of my spine
and I hear it creak every time I stand.