I love you too much,
my dark things. You are the apples
I tried to toss from the Garden, and somehow
you ended in my eyes.

I wanted a gun for Christmas, can you imagine;
I wanted a gun for my birthday.
I wanted a gun so bad
I couldn’t buy one myself
for fear of how quickly
I would kiss it, and have it kiss back.
I wasn’t quite done yet, after all.

I wanted
the fire engine I didn’t get
to roar into my room and arrive too late
to keep the bed from burning.

I wanted innumerable women to slap me.
I wanted to drink and drug and fuck
as if the world had given up on me
until the world gave up on me.

This morning I woke up
and the sun was doing, the leaves were doing,
the wind was doing an almost autumn thing.
All I wanted was to have the face of Cain
and to turn away, undefeated, toward
winter.

If I ask what’s wrong with me
too many times everyone will ignore me.
I will ask again, what’s wrong with me,
even though I know:

some of us break early
and the glue for that crack
turns to solid black as it dries.