Tell Me Things

You tell me there are things that you can’t say

Without bruising your tongue, some things

That you repeat in your head like videos of blurred suicides.

Each face the bullet goes through resembles your own.

You tell me there are things that you can’t say

Without a bible in your hand, some things

That you’ve forgotten.

Missing pieces of a puzzle that are found.

You tell me there are things that you can’t say

Without touching yourself, some things

That you catch yourself blurting out in the middle of the night.

Each spilled secret staining your bedsheet.

You tell me there are things that you can’t say

Without you crying, some things

That are better lost than found.

So

You throw away the found pieces

Of a puzzle.

You throw away

The bible.

You throw away

The sex toys.

You throw away

Love.

You say things that make you unhappy, like things

Better seen in the dark, or maybe things

That you wished you didn’t know.

So

You collect the missing pieces

Of another puzzle.

You collect

Broken promises.

You collect

Four-leaf clovers

With the fourth leaf plucked out

You tell me things that I’ve heard before

From your own mouth, some things

That I wish you’ve forgotten.

You say you can’t tell me what I already know

So you don’t say anything

When we open up the cadavers of drowned infants.

There are a hundred babies down in the lake

And you don’t even say a single word to me.

One of them is your own.

So you open me up instead

And tell me the lake is yours.