Fact

I find myself
or lose myself
here
 
at about four thirty everyday
 
between high notes I've sung and
heartache I no longer wish to publicly announce.
 
I wonder
 
within the memory of your evening
and the memories I've constructed
where the line is,
how touches fell,
how heat built
and why
after laying there
you come back, with your sullied body and averted eyes, to lay here.
 
On soil, where damage  
is ingrained  
into me
and there's no dilution, there's no solution  
that
could wash away,  
I think,
why do I lay here?
 
It's shadows on the wall, you see,
it's scratches in the headboard,
it's her face,
it's her smell,
it's the idea of you both,
it's the way I feel.
I want every gory detail
spoken as I would write it -  
Some terrible filth.  
 
And when you're finished unloading  
your bowl of shit and piss on me
then I can make decisions.
Here, on the ground
where there's no dilution,
there's no solution
without fact.
I can not stay blind.
 
I do not want to stay blind.