Tenente in Confidence
Now that my liver is open and bleeding,
I suppose Iíve been trying to speak my discontent.
That awful word I would not spit out,
Stuck in my teeth,
Telling itself in the moaning of my muscles,
The curvature of my back slumping downward as if begging for a bed or grave.
Iíve been numbing myself at the cafe and in the kitchen,
In the mornings and evenings to ease the transition between bouts of sleep,
Pores telling tales in the stink.
Every binge an unsayable frustration,
A dwindling summer spent bedridden
Catherine Barkley at bedside easing me through the day
Leaving the empties in a graveyard below.
She moves my broken shell
Love is the art of not wincing through it.
I will not show her the pain she causes,
Or that futile stone inside her,
Through my blistered hands, she will never know
My many lonely rain walks
She is the wheel that grinds,
I would not have it stop.
Nevermind the noise.