TALKING ABOUT IT
Those who love you don’t want to hear about the stink
like a cattle barn, the feel of other men’s knuckles
against your cheekbones like numbing needles the size of hammers.
They want your silence, your tongue severed in penance;
you’d rather say the words aloud
so the graveyard you sleep in seems less ominous.
Quiet bullies you with barbaric fists of insincerity.
You grasp for a song you want to sing,
the one you thought was yours,
but can’t name the tune or spit a second line:
what’s left as memory crushes your insides first,
leaves skin like a wet shirt in the wind.