I never gave my life to you
and now I wish I had, it’s true.
I never let you all the way in.
But it’s against ourselves we sin.
I was never able to let go.
I never opened up, although
we sit here at the breakfast table
correct, considerate, affable.
If I could, I’d dynamite
the hell in which we’re so polite.
Perhaps, even now, it’s not too late.
I almost speak, but hesitate.
There’s always tomorrow. It can wait.
First published in Snakeskin 245, November 2017