I cried most of the morning, stopping the voices.
I wanted to kill you, but I married you instead.
I had so much hope, yet I knew it was as useless
as loving without receiving.
I stabbed you, but you did not bleed.
You tasted like salty jokes,
eternal nightmares, refreshments
at an unknown bar.
I smiled the other half of the day, buying kitchen stools.
I cleaned out the basement, mopped the dusty dark floors.
They reflect the on-going days
that turn to the silence of the poems.
I wrote another story in my head,
it felt safe there.
No one criticizes its awful plot.
Sell a stainless steel pot for five dollars
and people want to negotiate?
How low is society? How poor?
Lacking to smell the danger like a dog,
listening to poets who can’t write a poem.
How sad is your existence when you
Forty-nine is a number, nineteen-sixty eight
is a year, do you fall into a label now?
Shall I? Be a hashtag poet now.
Refresh my dying feed.
I went into the night eons ago,
with pleated skirts and knee-high socks,
you lifted my innocence up in a car.
How will I ever reveal the truth to anyone?
It dies with me, this love.
It lived with me, this love.