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I’m dead with dying
There is an eye I refuse to catch

I was born with knowing
I look and I listen and I discern
I know

You’ve caught my eye
I’m not God
But I know

Tell me everything
The bile and the filth and the worst, pour it
All that will be left will be left behind
Listen to my knowing

Let me catch your eye
My knowing is a reflection
There’s no dream I can’t decipher
I simply know
You tell me what’s the matter
And that’s what’s the matter
A reflection
through kinder eyes than you can’t bear to see
This is my knowing

I was born in January
I am dead with dying
There’s an eye I refuse to catch

It’s the eye of a child
Who won’t let me see
Something terrible happened
Something awful and humiliating
Something that drained my blood from my face my screams from my throat my heart from my chest and
Something that puddled my potty down my leg and between my toes
Something terrible
And I don’t know
Something terrible
And I don’t know

Hollow now
I won’t catch my blue eye that eyes me in the mirror

I was a child born dead with knowing
It was January
It was cold something terrible
Something terrible
And I don’t know

In a sleep, the wound wept its tears
Bloodshed
Seeped from itself without knowing
But I knew
I saw your death a million times before you did

But then you said
In a sleep, all around was death, death, dea th
You knew bloodshed
Wept for us both before I ever did

Nasal discharge

is carelessly swiped away

on my wrist

It’s sort of gross

but I can’t reach the Kleenex

and you know

deep down

more than allergies

I suffer from laziness

and besides

I’m tired

 

Bad posture

he says

but he knows

the weight in my chest

bends me downward

like ice on worn-out

and weary trees

He’s right

though

 

My pounding heart

is not easily ignored

when watching shows about death

People die naturally

of unnatural causes

everyday

and I know

I will be one of the sad

taken somewhere I don’t want to go

too soon

I feel a bubble

and I know

I have an ulcer

in the space

between my upper and lower

jaws

 

A boy told me

and seduced me

yesterday

with his diagnosis

that I probably had

a patellar femoral articulation

injury in my knee

 

My first day

volunteering

and I was already bleeding

under my thumb

from the separation of the skin

and nail

 

And I wonder

if anticipatory pain

is the same

as knowing pain

Inaudible

I know

In their voices

I know

A sad, fierce look in their eyes

I know

 

The problem with my hobby of suffering through heartache is that I remind others of their own past relationship traumas (a saving grace is most of them are in good, healthy relationships now). I’ve finally realized when they tell me not to beat myself up, they speak from experience, not from indifference.

 

I see a light in their eyes, aware and remembering and I feel kinship and guilt. They know and I think they’d just as well forget.

 

It’s never as easy as I’m sorry.

SOB with me

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