So here goes,
One last letter now. One last attempt to
Make sense. Who have I been writing to? I'm not sure anymore. What have I
Been trying to accomplish? It's a mystery, I guess. Self-made secrecy.
Things get cloudy and now all these stories and
The struggle as an
Undercurrent, both get blurry by the minute both get blurrier.
So,
Which voice is this then that I've been writing in? Is it my own or his?
Has there ever been a difference between them at all?
I don't know I don't know.
One last desperate
Plea. One last verse to sing. One last laugh track to accompany the comedy.
Have I been losing it completely? Losing sanity? Or has it been
Fabricated, fashioned by the worst of me?
I know I knocked the table
Over because I watched the jar break and I've been trying to repair it
Every single stupid day But won't the cracks still show no matter how well
It's assembled can I ever just decide to let it die and let you go?
All my motives and every single narrative below reflects that
Moment when it broke and will I never let it go
No matter what? Now I am throwing all the shards away, discarding every fragment, and fumbling
Uncertain towards a Curtain call that no one wants to happen, that no ones
Going to clap for at all, but that still has to be.
