it was only after the abandonment
that i found the will to hate you,
only after your obscene, excessive absence
that i could figure out how to really loathe.
in all the mutations of my desires,
in all the fucked-up coercions and
the great white lie of combative reluctance:
at the end of the day there is only guilt.
silence, and guilt.
with your big stupid paws, soft pink fingerpads,
you managed to retch up some wild fantasy
that i swallowed, that i lapped up
off the floor, so much spilled milk,
sweet and frothy and feeling of fake freshness.
(my own clumsy ideas get lost
in that sway, get sidetracked and disproportionate.)
the story you sell is so golden! and at last,
burnished with years of stress and shame,
the ego breaks.
what am i now, lacking in love and spirit
and full-up of history and doubt, what am i?
some brazen trek through self-hatred,
a dry, pallid mask of last year's face creams:
some coppery pail full up
of chalk and powder and the grindings of teeth.
calcified, fossilized fissures:
a body old while i am young.
what future is there for used-up whiteness?