In her innocence so pure (read absent),

She claims, proclaims, prints it in the presses –

That she has never exposed me, or anyone

To the hell she endures.


This is why each morning, I dispose of the bottle,

At the bottom of which remains the dregs

Of the poison she injected

The night before.


This is why I know intimately each intonation

Of her screams,

Every morbid drag of her sobs,

And the taste of saltwater tears.


This is why I know glassy from foggy,

And foggy from misty,

And misty from vacant –

Not there.


This is why I have experienced

An absence of oxygen,

And moments devoid of life and hope –

And my own blood on my own hands.


This is why with nightfall comes

A terror in my heart, and

A weight on my back:

A weight so heavy, so unimaginably burdensome

That I don't think all the adults of the world

Could shoulder it, and not have a little darkness

Seep through the cracks of their conscience.


I know nothing of hell, this is true.

But I walk the line -

And that is enough.

It is too much.