Friday, April 4, 2008

rubbing it in

a layer of salt on the wound
is all i'm going to get
from you
so i don't mind that you're
not calling to tell me
why i won't do.
it is a relief; my inferiority
i know all too well, can plot
the timeline
of my mind's rise and fall -
the freefloating panic
and empty inertia of apathy

i know more about my
being unfit
than you give me credit.
so pardon your fucking trouble,
dealing with me -
some lost, fucked-up self
pardon my thinking
this time would be worthwhile,
that i
might have deserved this;
i erred.

i do not need you
to tell me
because i sing it to myself
with every solitary step
on the concrete,
each song i sing
to myself,
a lullaby
voice cracking
on the walk home.

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