What Now

I’ve got that heavy knot in my gut

telling me I fucked up, I know it,

everyone knows it, but

I don’t know what I did.

I can’t remember. All I have

is that feeling, something trying

to crawl up from my intestines

and hang from my vocal cords,

choking back a mystery apology.

 

You’re so good at telling me

everything I’ve done wrong.

Tell me now. Tell me

so I can go nine rounds with myself,

get my slacker ass on the ropes

and go for the KO, slam this

imperfection from my system.

 

Tell me so I’m not forced to

waterboard my memory

for false confessions and

agonizing half-thoughts

sputtered out between

cracked lips and

another vodka-rocks.

 

Shuffle my neurons and

find some plausible lie

to explain this writhing,

heavy-as-a-dying-star

sickness in my stomach.

I’m sure you’ll be right.

 

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