Habitats

I've never written a song.

Never heard the phone ring so loud as it did then. In little bits of hysteria. And I could be myself again. In the fascism of alcohol. In the communism of poetry. I could still find freedom. As much as anyone would want. As little as any heart would wish.

I've never been that young. To kneel down and assemble their faces. Like breaking pastels over the page. A hurricane of colors asking permission from of the emptiness. Young in the way all victims are. With spoiled neckties and borrowed tuxedos. Young in contrast to what I can still recall.

I've never sung a song. But I've heard thousands. Little mosquito bites on my brain coaxing the blood to the surface. In cryptic maps. Of names kept. Secret invitations into their desperation. In complexions of destination paler than I'd imagined.

I can't sing. I can't even cry. To proposition hope for another chance. I can only watch. The ghosts as they assemble. The sanity of surrender as it confesses what I've always known about myself.

I'm determined to die. I'm not willing to try them on again. Wear those liars as I would saviors. Argue with those coffins until dying was the reward.