That's Your Job

Is that your heart you're tearing out and nailing to my wall in a frenzy? A mishmash of suggestions and recommendations, a slip of the tongue that turns into an inferno, the day that's already done? I remember more than that. Days slip by me and I am solemn, I kneel in prayer only for you, my lips paralyzed with a fervor of feeling, the lips you glossed with purple grapes, the avenues I've never seen. Leave me alone tonight before the door opens to release; I like prison so much better, the cold floor feels good under my feet. I like sleeping in an unmade bed with cookie crumbs surrounding me; the sweetness of your life and the sarcasm are too much to see, but it's too expensive to go blind. I can call the wind at my command and tell it where to go, I can see life before you know if the womb is alive and well. The gravestones are singing at dusk, it's my job to wipe the dust off and guard against the skeletons who want to chat about the flowers they don't like. "Do there have to be roses here? And do they have to be red like the blood that was shed when I died before you were born?" How can you wipe a tear off a skeleton? You can't, so you make a promise that you'll find the right flowers to fill their hollow bones, to answer their invisible questions. But not on a stormy night-- that's your job.