I wish I had contained you better.
I should never have allowed
what I had with you to spill
beyond the controlled environment
of my loneliness. That was all you
should have ever been to me:
on/off switch of adrenaline rush
whenever my heart flatlines,
flask of slow-moving poison
as a more socially acceptable
alternative to a quick end,
a sin for the body to dabble in
to distract from the shame of the mind.
You should have been the name
I never spoke, the taboo and the
noncommittal indulgence that dyes
the most broken of my nights,
too broken to even matter.
You should have been nothing more
than the lies small enough to pass
through the sieve of my vetted alibis.
There’s an entire world
for which I am the sun
and the art that I pull from my
reticulated soul should have been
infinitely bigger than the place
you occupy in my thoughts, in my time,
that my misery swallows you whole
without tasting you,
but then you started touching things.
You started getting inside of things.
You started speaking words that
ignited the walls and dismantled
the machinery of the restlessness
I call home. You started appearing
in more than one place at a time,
started pulling archetypes
from the shelves and laying waste
to every single one. You started
conjuring mirages of longing on
the surfaces of my immovable parts.
You started materializing at hours
when truth parades its naked thorns
and you refused to be put out.
You started becoming the size of
the faith it takes to make sense
of the ashes before the burning
has even happened. You started
reading from an impossible chapter,
turned the air that I breathe
into a hostage situation
with fate spelling out her demands
as you and I tugged at the chains:
all this happiness is possible
if you choose it.
You gave me the version of me
that blinds me.