disarray

I don’t enjoy this feverish fighting
your attention

always waning
pushing me in your direction
forcing you toward my attention

I don’t like the scars I’ve gathered
ripping roaring torn and bothered

I don’t want these wounds ripped open
seeping out all I’d had frozen.

I don’t see you weeping, wondering
I don’t see you spinning or swirling
I can’t see your breathing slowing
speeding stomping shrieking growing

I don’t want your scars reflecting
any of this pain I’m bleeding
I can’t see your cares colliding
with any part of me that’s seething

You won’t look at words and pictures
keep them locked in rotting fixtures
I won’t see you read these letters
You won’t see me getting better.

I can’t seem to feed this absence
seal its mouth with graceful patience
I can’t seem to play the right songs
without stumbling on brand new old wrongs.

I don’t like these doors left open
bringing in what I didn’t mind missing.