numb knuckles on the white sheets
i cry for a friendship that was untrue,
not really there at all. Surreal. (are you a hallucination or
a memory I've implanted to bring reason and logic to the sadness?)
I cry for a friendship that was untrue,
though it takes blind television light that stings my
retinas and pupils and irises (not flowers. never flowers) to bring
on the sobs.
even they feel fake.
please decode my soul, I am far
too cryptic, I know
and never honest enough with myself.
a teaspoon of the truth would be nice
it's all I can stomach right now. (heavy medication.
this is a heavy leaden numb cold that seeps
through my spider web veins (but blue of course)
to my fingers.
I've grown tired of this incomprehension and these
falsehoods that I sometimes utter.
lies are easier to hide behind
than the tears, my hands, the slats of open blinds.
hot and counterfeit my crying might be but
it does nothing for me
except to lead me to wish I wasn't so good at pushing
and shoving and forcing people away
when I might need them.
I can't admit
I can't admit I
I can't admit I need
I can't admit I need you.