[On rare occasions, I go back and find an old poem that I still think has merit; 4 years old, this one]

I come to coming again
In need with you
I say I smell blood
You say, “That’s because your nose is bleeding.”
This sickness I sought
The color of powder and the texture of powder
Sugar and baby
The words you use to disarm me

Spending time with you makes me ill
But I’m a psychologist and I know there’s a difference
Between correlation and causation
So maybe it’s not you, maybe it’s the alcohol
And maybe the bottle is the wrong prescription

But maybe it is you

I dreamt of dreaming again
In love with you
You said, “There must be an ‘Out of Order’ sign on your heart.”
I said, “No,
“Just ‘Closed for the season.’”
The winter is long and immeasurable
But spring rolls in hidden by fog
“Don’t be here when the sun returns.”

Spending time with me taints your soul
But I’m a prophet and I know there’s a difference
Between living and being alive
So maybe it’s not me, maybe it’s the cancer
And maybe the angels are facing the wrong direction

But maybe it is me