The poetry I write says nothing to me about my life,
because my life is preciously provincial,
still doing the same routines, no matter how I age,
writing the same stanzas again and again,
chilling but charming,
page after page,
because it doesn’t matter what I say,
my velvet voice makes it much more pleasant.
She told me that I was her favourite thing that I had ever written,
so I wrote an affectionate album across each inch of her hands with lonely lips,
kiss after kiss,
restrained and trained to taper off when it all got too much,
and it always gets too much,
because heaven is hazy and heated in a way that one can never take for too long.
She talks as if I created myself,
but truthfully, I am a creature created by life’s cruelty and God’s gawky sense of humour,
getting through it and assessing the damage when everyone else is resting,
resisting the urge to ask for a refund on the human experience,
because nobody likes a whiner.
So cynical, with so little to say,
it’s all so hideous,
so hard to hear,
the cross of the lord around the neck of a girl with feminine fingerprints across her throat,
in a chokehold of my own torment.
So little to say that isn’t sullied in sorrow,
but, oh, such a sweet little voice,