[almost an apology]

i carve deep into my own body

for the source of suffering,

but i know i'll never find enough

to justify what i did to you.

so here is your answer:

i drink scotch to fade reality,

because there are no consequences

for make-believe boys.

and when i look back

at pictures of you, i feel

like i am all mouth

and no sense.

i think, would you miss me?

seven minutes less

at a small-town petrol station;

does it even matter?

you've turned your stomach

into a bomb shelter

and papered the city streets

with propaganda.

those are my handprints

in the wet cement.

those are my eyes

on the paper pull-tabs.

you are lighting a funeral pyre

for the music we cried over —

you say, dearly beloved,

do not go gentle.

in the whiter autumns,

i feel a strange sense of sadness

sleeping beneath the ice.

do you know it?

you are loved, you are loved.

i remember what i said to you,

and i wanted you to believe it then,

but not now. not anymore.

i know it's not the right love,

and i'm no longer what you want,

but if i could undo it all,

i would be willing

to fall to my knees

and call you some kind of holy.