Now this, you are more broken than you can understand:
like Van Gogh’s Starry Night hanging in some famous
person’s living room while their hiding in the back
closet ripping to shreds the thinness of their
heart. The war cries bob off your chest
and there are mystery noises
draining from your belly.
I’m tired of writing about you
this way and like this and
that and every thing else
that is sin and ache and the possibility
of you aimlessly in love but never getting to me.
I caught you sleeping with your mouth open last night
and I smelled the inconsistency of love and war. You can’t save
yourself or me, from you. If I don’t give up now I may never see you smile.
Who will tire from writing about me?