History

I have always been of the perception
that if I can't love something
I'll smother it, drown it,
castrate the meaning,
render passionate flesh an ashtray,
pulverise those bones
and make fool's gold.
I linger over remnants
of interactions I've shared
as if a pond containing a small, silver ball,
versions I saw,
never as they were,  
and speak to frogs
croaking between
the pounding of my chest,
nest quiet in the valley,
quieter still
for the death of you.  
And if I could, perhaps,  
raise what's been lost,
chain myself in a room
and face the thrum,  
if I could pull butchered thumbs
from wounded versions of myself,
pour rum and quake in searing,
if I could shake out
the needing of safety
from my vocal chords,
retract that attack at thirteen,
bottle down beatings,
her face before scratches,
his hands in her hair,
well,
I may stop biting
at your long-gone fingers,
but I won't promise.