it is strange to me, the way you form sentencesMature

It is strange to me the way you form your sentences.
The way your words sometimes hold more weight
than the oceans.  Like you can somehow fit
more force into the word beautiful than any other man
I’ve ever met.  But do you mean it?  Is it the same
tired old definition as when other men use it?  Or
have you changed it, somehow, gone right to the core
and altered the very meaning of those syllables
arranged in the same way but clustered closer together,
pushed into tighter quarters like sardines or ants or
the way all the other things I’ve never had the time 
to put down to paper seem to cloister together in my skull?
I can’t remember why I started letting this happen.
Why I woke up one morning with an emptiness and
decided you were the best way to fill it.  Your name is
on my lips more often than I’d like to admit and I can’t
ever say it out loud.  You’re a secret I don’t want to keep
anymore.  You’re a sin that keeps resurfacing no matter
how hard I scrub my skin, how much soap I use, or
how scalding I make the water.  I leave the shower with
welts and burns and barely look human anymore but still
there you are, still all over my skin like bad tattoos or freckles.
No one else can see you but I know you’re there and 
I need to be alone, I need to be rid of you; I can’t think
anymore because the sound of your name just echoes 
inside of my cranium like that song I hated so much
I got it stuck in my head and woke up with it there, on repeat,
for a week straight.  I need to find your volume knob, turn
you down so low you’re practically off, try to forget the way
you take a word and make it more, take my heart and make it sore,
take my life and break it in your hands like pottery.  Do you think
if I burn your name into my anterior cranial fossa and paint it over
that you would finally leave?  I’ve traced all your footprints back
and I know you’ve buried yourself in my frontal lobe like a tumor;
you should know - I’m not scared to carve you out, anymore.

The End

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