to write a memoir
(and add to all this
damned truth in the world?
no. though i’ve served the time,
i am not a criminal)
to tell my story anymore
to turn tricks using tales
about bruises he painted with
solid brushes dipped in anger and
balled so that the knuckles hit first.
whore-me-out like the way
that boy we all don’t know
now-wheredhego-staring and trembling
in an hourly motel because it’s his first
time and he didn’t think his girlfriend would
have him like that.
and pure because nothing
in this world is pure so why should he
get. to. be?
(later, he doesn’t want to save me,
because nobody was there to save
him maybe, and now when he looks
back, it seems better that way. to
learn young when you’re still dumb
enough to bounce back and ask for
more, only i’m not asking for anything
except release. letmego, i beg, but
he can’t hear me. he’s too far gone,
too old, to know
he’s hurting me. but i think (back now)
all he wanted to do was save me, because
nothing deserves to be pure in this world.
it all seems the same to me. trembling
afraid to avoid flying fists, afraid not to.
the way the safest route is never
the right one. the way
flesh is pounded and hearts are broken and
all the people walk away less than they were
before. (&only the lucky walk away anyway)
they’ve been asking me to tell my story.
(they’re not ready, but they ask, and i
won’t refuse them anymore:
they were too young to want me
and too broken (or high or crazy) to
and now i ignore the phone when
their names come up because
guilty about not loving them
anyway (despite it all)