Blame it on Mercury
(and I don’t mean the way you taste).I am in retrograde
speaking in tongues
sweating in reverse
and maybe if I wasn’t spinning backwards
I could conjure up the right words.
They’ve buried themselves in me somewhere
beneath twelve tons of brick.
After eighty-six hours of silence
I’m starting to wonder what my voice sounds like.
Looking down at my hands
I’m trying to recall
which way is
right
what is left
nothing
there’s nothing left.Blame it on the dirt
(and I don’t mean the way you swallow secrets).I am digging my own grave
burying myself in the garden
so that the world may have another sad song
about sleeping alone
and I think if the love in my heart
was made out of glass
I’d be coughing up blood by now.
My insides are shattered
but I don’t I look good?
What about from this angle?
What about when I bite my lip
bide my time
grow amongst the flowers?Blame it on the nightmares
(and I don’t mean the way you live with your ghosts).I am haunted just like everyone else.
My mouth is dry but maybe
I’d be a little more kissable
after another glass of whiskey
after another poem about the stars.
My heart is empty,
do you mind if I have yours?
You used to tell me I was a dream
But now you have trouble sleeping
And you don’t look at me like that anymore.
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