You said
that box had holes
large enough to let you
see, but small enough
to keep you in.
You couldn’t stretch couldn’t
stand broken bones, broken
dreams unbroken will: small
victories won
at great expense.
And you tried to think
of me—here—waiting.
You told me that
you used to drink
your piss. “Kept me alive,”
you said.
And I have tried
to imagine those things
you say still haunt.
But no context in pain
admits me to your rancid dreams.
And I was always safe.
Always safe.
You’ve said that you’re OK now:
“It’s over, done.”
But every time we kiss
there’s just a hint
of urine
on your breath. 3 April 2013
(thanks to Bruce Weigl)