soul box

I have too much dark inside me, I could scream all night and
                                                     still the smoke wouldn’t clear.

I’ve cried blood, bled tar, spat salt water into the sink; 
all this grief and nowhere to put your hands but on me.

I want to take you apart like a castle in the hands of God
                                                                                  you say

and now dreams are the only place I hear your voice. I sang
myself to sleep behind the bathroom door, my feet propped up

on the porcelain bath. I don’t know what to tell you about the
rain and why it falls. there is nothing common sense in collapsing.

there’s nothing left but the railroads and a plug without a
socket. this is a metaphor for something too painful to talk about.

                                                   I missed the last train home
                                                                                    you say,

but I’ve never heard anything that mattered less. once again
I gave you all the speaking parts and you never learnt your lines.

I gave you all the speaking parts but you never know when
to come in. you’re unrehearsed. love is a distant act at the

end of a script you never planned to read. you’re falling apart
and even dawn has never broken like you. for safety, you have your

conscience locked in a box. your soul is a child you trapped in
the basement who never cries, just knocks very politely on the

underside of the trapdoor. you always do this. it always has to
end like this / with you stretching out your hands but I won’t take

anything you’re willing to give away for free. barefoot I’m scaling the
fence,  i’m running down the street; the red footprints in the snow

are the latter part of a telegram about mortality. i’m turning
over the body in your bed and seeing that it’s mine. here is

my blood in a wineglass, my heart on a stake:
                                                       if you must, be lot
                                                                            be orpheus
                                                                            be herakles.

maybe hylas thanked the waves for drowning.

Yves Olade, So Close to the Light You Catch Fire
response to the @nepenthenet prompt  “two faces”