Some truths are too
to work our tongues around;
blunt to pierce darkness, to make light.
I don’t love you anymore
I’m not sure I ever did).
So you find yourself
not saying things that
need to be said so badly they almost
And you hope the other
half of you
(baby teeth, a rotted kidney,
a lung that’s forgotten how to pull
good air in and push bad air out)
can somehow hear
words forced to speak themselves
Because you can’t.
And you hope it doesn’t end badly
(for either of you);
But you fear it will.
Still, that fear still isn’t enough
to be stronger than the fear of
actually, finally telling the truth.