These are the things I keep tucked
beneath my ribcage
that the last remaining part that is human
in me tries to keep hidden –
my anger at death is just longing in
disguise
society is too scared to let me have
my anger is really passion
and fear
(except for the dull ache that lives
beneath my bottom left rib)
(he wants god to burn and the houses of
my enemies set ablaze
to light the way to heaven’s gate)
I keep my loves small
my happiness smaller
I fold joys innumerable –
millions of them –
into my chest cavity
but I never learned to cherish them
so they’ve always faded with the sun
melted into nothing
I hide my longings poorly
To be seen, for a silvertongued
lost king made from the same stuff as me
I’ve looked my angels and my
demons in their myriad eyes
and ask them why they don’t leave me
alone
and they all say
“all we ever wanted was your love”
in a thousand different ways
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