Poems rattle around my brain like loose batteries living in a junk drawer.
WRITE ME! each poem screams when I dare to look;
I close the drawer fiercely.
I can’t write you,
I can’t write you!
And I definitely can’t write you.
That’s too much of me.
Try again later:
Like when I lose my keys and search the drawer,
and I think of all the others things I’ve lost.
I scan it’s contents for the coupon I swore I had,
I swore I could trust my dad too.
Go to sleep poems.
Let me have a moment where life doesn’t spring up in metaphor.
A moment where I’m not cataloging every detail
to pick apart later and select the best pieces
like a butcher.