Eclipse

It was too much to take yesterday  
and I needed to run,  
to rest,  
to feel nothing for a bit.  
   
And I brushed him off  
with some shitty words and  
put on a camo sports bra  
and tried to run it off,
run it all off,
the dead girl  
and the dead boy  
and his hooker mom with the rap sheet four pages deep,  
and the raped woman who barely scored a blurb  
because I was too fucking busy  
writing a story about a poker run for a  
pancreatic  
cancer  
patient.  
 
When I got out of the shower  
lost in my selfish numbness  
he was peeling potatoes.  
So we stood together,  
shoulder-to-shoulder,  
and fucking peeled potatoes  
in silence.  
 
Later, I stood staring  
at the fridge  
seeing years of  
biohazard pavement stains  
and he said,  
"I thought you were OK?"  
 
and I said,  
"I think I'm sad."  
 
He left the kitchen,  
me still staring at the fridge.  
 
Later  
he pulled me from the other  
end of the couch  
without a word,  
so that my head rested on his knee,  
and he turned on the end of a movie  
that always makes me cry  
and just pet my hair  
like I was an exotic  
wild animal,  
and he had to trace  
the outline of each  
strand of hair  
before I bit his hand,  
or ran away.  
 
He can never tell me  
that I am the rising sun.  
 
He can't.  
 
HIs soul can't threaten to swallow mine,  
his will can't paint Armageddon  
in my passion  
 
He can never  
tell me  
I am  
the rising sun.  
 
He just lives his entire life  
with his back to the west  
and his face to me.