Head in the sand.
I stand at the altar;
Cry on command.
The cards on the table;
I’ll show you my hand.
Man out of order;
Just bad news.
How can I tell anyone
that I’ve gone back on my word?
How do I break it to Dad
that I’m reconsidering death again?
Not the conventional methods this time,
but by letting the cancer eat its fill?
The same thing that happened to his mother’s brain.
The father’s mother with whom I share a name.
How can my mother know
not to expect grandchildren, adopted or otherwise?
When test results become tabulated lies?
That her daughter uses her scorched earth for something else?
Cold sweat and old threats.
Don’t worry your pretty little head.
She’s in your area.
She knows the first three numbers.
When you come out, your shit is gone.
Just don’t follow me down the stairs… my shortcut hurts.
Tell the usual suspects I’ll be different.
Better behaved and truly submissive.
Good girls don’t have gag reflexes
or any real guts at all.
We wait until we’re hit before we say anything, right?
Fuck me apart and I won’t say shit… just let me sit in it for a minute.
Or I won’t say anything and let the results speak for themselves.
Because it’s not down to me to tell anyone anything anymore.
If you really must know
then you gotta stick around for the clean-up.
I wouldn’t and you shouldn’t.