spill your guts

I asked her if she could forget my newest affliction 

and stay here

and hold my hand

as if our cheeks were flushed 

and our palms cold to the touch �" 

she did. Thank you.

You’re welcome.

I could thrust a knife into my chest

(you grip the handle and I’ll plunge it in, quickly, with a sharp inhale and a bite of the lip)

and my blood will leak from between my ribs

and flow to the floor

and puddle around my feet

and maybe because it has seen the inside of me

it’ll spell out the details of what its witnessed 

and you’ll finally have your burning questions answered,

it’ll all make sense now. 

(You only told me to spill my guts.)

Or if not a knife, perhaps a piece of glass?

Take one of those ceramic plates from your mother’s pantry;

we’d use her fine china, if she were the type.

And do it like we practiced,

(you smash the plate and I’ll plunge each piece in, quickly, with sharp inhales and a bite 

of the tongue)

and then I’ll pull out each fragment

and hand them to you, individually wrapped,

like little presents.

And there it is again �" my blood, tainting the white ghost of a plate �"

try to understand me like this,

in fragments.

Try to understand me like I never will.

(You only told me to help with the dishes.)

I thought I consoled you, 

I brought the cherry back to your hair and your cheeks.

Even she had said it,

that hidebound, muffled thing. Your creator.

So why do the words frozen in time 

make me sick?

I deserve that sick �"

I am sick.

Playing those days back, rewinding the words, seeing them now,

I wish I could truly go back there, not just through words and memorabilia,

so I could stop right then and extinguish myself.

You like me offbeat and deafening, 

I like you ardent and sober.

We’ll never be the same. That is good.