Coming Out About You

When it came the time
to tell your story,
the only traces I found
of you
were a collage
of shallow memes
and a cry of art
meant to express
your own conflicted obsession
with your own
filth,
and how you both hated
and loved
us both.

But how can I prove
that you felt that?
Even now,
your rhetoric
binds me whole
with piano wires
and soft taps
of computer keys.
Will anyone see
the smoke and mirrors,
or will they just see
me,
doing the dance
you pull me to do,
and I let you,
because I could see
your sickness
and pitied it.

Or perhaps that was only
my own sickness,
hoping to justify itself
to some selfless love
that doesn’t exist,
like reflections
and those thin
invisible strings.

But storytime has come.
They wait, those who don’t know you
and don’t know me,
and I only wish to tell
the truth.

 

 

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