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.
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