Trite

Today I almost ripped out my veins
poured blood to the page
and killed you.
I almost shattered every CD,
called you up to scream
about an empty tank.
I almost did as I dreamed -
and ripped out my veins -
Splattered the french divide
with

F - STOP DO NOT EN
CALL 911

and went to sleep.

But F - is gone now
that message means
nothing now,
an empty threat because
the translucent walls
hold more
between them
than just me
so instead
I silenced my wrists
with white bandages
and closed the document
I had double checked for attachment.

Instead of opening veins,
instead of exploring
an invaded space,
I waited - patiently
until it was safe
until it was posted and
published for all to see.

I'm rhyming.

It's late.
I'm drunk.
And not pretty.
It's all very trite, really.

But...

How about I am better than that.
How about I am better than the overlap,
the goddamn rhyming couplet.
How about I am a liar, and the worst kind,
fucking posing for a poet.

I am a contraction upon myself that I can't release -

And I have a terrible habit of getting everything I ask for.