[ I wish I could juxtapose it in a way that makes sense ]

I wish I could juxtapose it in a way that makes sense, like  
the words aren't stuck, backed up,
pressing their urgency against the gap
at the bottom of my ribcage,
behind my eyes,
in the heartbeat pulse of my fingertips
or the static of sleeping feet.

You wanted a fence and you got a fortress.
You wanted a chance but you got me.

How do you navigate a shadow
without existing in direct light? Don't be subtle.
That boy in the reflection is the only thing real about me.
Those words are right where they belong
and it's not your fault that your voice is rejection.

You didn't mean it.

This isn't the car crash; just the aftermath.
There. Just like that. Bandaged up but only thinking
of the seconds ticking back to neutral.

I wish I had hands that could translate
the smell of blood on the driveway
but all I can give you is the sound of giving up.

It sounds like doors slamming
and the screaming quiet ticking of a cooling-down car.
It sounds like questions that never stop
and when nobody sees you,
you never have to see yourself.
You can let it rest. You can lay there and say:
I'm only bleeding. You can lay there
and swear you never cried.
Words mean something different in the dark
and you with that hangover, next morning,
from too much honesty and not enough left to drink.

You wake up and you wonder.
You wake up and you panic.
You wake up.

There are seventeen plastic boxes of 20th-century memories
boarding up the corner and three small spots of blood
but if you walk six steps past the Derek Jeter rookie card
you'll find that same dogeared photo
of the boy who's not a boy who is.
But you have to stop and listen. Everything stands too still
in all the wrong places, for all the wrong reasons.
You'd see it if you'd listen.
You'd hear it if you'd just stand still
but you won't stop and listen.
You won't stand still.
You won't.