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