On my nightstand there are three books about Law that you picked up and have been there ever since.
I haven’t moved the knives you left in the brand name pomegranate glass since you left.
You organized my desk and now it’s covered in the bits and pieces of rubble I create wherever I go.
I haven’t done laundry in a month because I get so anxious about doing it that I give up and stuff it further into the closet.
My drinking, like clockwork: twice a week benders until I pass out on couch yelling about the television being off. Silence promotes obedience and willingness to simply stand by, I think.
In my head there is broken glass I haven’t cleaned up since God, I can’t remember.
Tonight I watched a man stumbling in my headlights, clutching his side and limping.
A few seconds later I saw two cars pushed together like pieces of paper in a waste basket and realized that man was running away from his demise and also into it.
I saw in his bloodied shirt what I see in the mornings in the mirrors in the car door glass right before I get in.
I saw in his wild grey hair what I see under the low pressure sodium lamps after midnight after twelve shots of whiskey and nowhere else to run except circles around vague self-awareness.
I won’t open certain drawers in this room because I’m afraid of what is inside them,
I don’t open some doors inside me and close others tight until they lock because something is telling me to and it isn’t me anymore.
I can’t cry unless it’s under the spotlight, surgical light.
Dissect me, I beg of you.