A poem I wrote when I was twenty years old.
I need time to figure out how
I need you to know what’s
wrong because that’s how
I measure if you care at all.
I’m dying, I’m dead, I need
to sleep for a hundred years,
just go away.
Life is a pile, a huge bucket full of
lead or dead things, and I
must carry it all, no one else
takes a turn, and they shout
and growl at my selfishness,
demanding I share the load,
but it is screwed to my
shoulders and my skin tears
when they pull.
I do not think my life will
ever consist of anything but
It’s not just a “see you later,” we
very well won’t see each other for
the rest of our corn-fed lives, and
if we do we shouldn’t, we’ll just
keep on killing each other and
saying thank you about it.
I never want to leave you but I
have the kind of exhaustion that
perpetuates itself and if I don’t
move from this bed I will turn to
“I love you”
I’m too weak to love myself and
so I give it to others to carry, and
now that I’ve given it to you I
don’t have to work – I can
skate by on the warm air of
your voice, the red words you hush
into my ears, and I will have
absolutely no cares until you stab
me right through my chest and then
I will have every care that ever
existed at once.
I wouldn’t buy myself for a dollar,
for laundry quarters, for the
last egg in the carton.
“Don’t leave me”
Don’t leave me
“I forgive you”
I’m still pissed as hell but you’re
important enough to me and I’m so
used to you doing your life right close
to my life that I can’t keep on being
silent with you so goddammit we
need to get over something before
the conflict turns to a god and
smites us to oblivion, to the oblivion
of cold acquaintance.
I need you to hurt me again later.