Tell Me Things

You tell me there are things that you can’t say Without bruising your tongue, some things That you repeat in your head like videos of blurred suicides. Each face the bullet goes through resembles your own. You tell me there are things that you can’t say Without a bible in your hand, some things That you’ve forgotten. Missing pieces of a puzzle that are found. You tell me there are things that you can’t say Without touching yourself, some things That you catch yourself talking in the middle of the night. Each spilled secret staining your bed sheet. You tell me there are things that you can’t say Without you crying, some things That are better lost than found So You throw away the missing pieces Of a puzzle. You throw away The bible. You throw away The sex toys. You throw away Love. You say things that make you unhappy, like things Better seen in the dark, or maybe things That you wished you didn’t know. So You collect the missing pieces Of another puzzle. You collect Broken promises. You collect Four-leaf clovers With the fourth leaf plucked out You tell me things that I’ve heard before From your own mouth, some things That I wish you’ve forgotten. You say you can’t tell me what I already know So you don’t say anything When we open up the cadavers of drowned infants. There are a hundred babies down in the lake And you don’t even say a single word to me. One of them is your own. So you open me up instead And tell me the lake is yours.