So real to me as my own
Failure,
he said
through glass walls in his head, grinding
his guilt into his palms
like dust. It was dust
in his eyes. It
was
dust in his bloodstream. But let me
be honest with
myself; let me be honest
with both of us. If there's nothing closer than
that
Glass can't hold anything back. On the other
hand if there is something like honest laughter spitting fire into night
I wouldn't want glass. Let me lean
lean
into the sparks.
There's dead skin
here that needs to be burnt off.
He scratched at the tattoo
on the back
of his hand: saint paul holding a serpent.
It was biting his hand.
Deep, hot marks in his skin.
I'm giving up. I'm tired. It's too late.
She lit a cigarette and pressed it out
against the window pane.
I love you too.
