I won't be your hate/love-relationships or
burning desire
and I'm not your cold cynical aids on sticky
surface as done lies breaking and twisting
I am not your decaying wishes or your twisted life,
porous and sick and
I am not your choices or your loud harmonies completed
or your foul mouth vindictive chorus phrases with
idealistic scorn and hatred and bile

but I am the last dot on the concluding exclamation point of
your suicide note and I am sunlight printed on folded paper
cut armchair
I'll be coiled crap on quiet, deserted streets in warm midday sun,
and the ashes in your mouth when you yawn one sunday morning

I'll be your spill filth turns violent and rubber textures
on warm asphalt melting in tilted practice-paradise winter

I'll be disappointment
I'll be acrid disappointment in white silk sufficient
and I'll be the evil in your eyes and the prick of your
thoughts at the tip of your tongue at the end of the day
as you bury your mind in the cold heart embraced pollution
pictures running deeper than you expected

I'll be grains of gold or pieces of the truth unravelled
and I'll be broken arms in itching casts and the sexual
confusion of the melted cheese on your hungry hamburger
afternoon and I'll be two steps from adolescence and
three steps from womanhood and I'll be gender bias and
deceptive ideals and I will be that wholesome inevitable
feeling of freedom that comes with knowing that no matter
how much you learn or how far you grow
everything you do is wrong