No Answer

I am gathering up the words
for what it means to be—
what it feels like to be—to be what?
Lost?
Left?
Hurt?
Used?
Betrayed?
Mistaken?
The words I want to say to you are ugly—
they contain a meaning that opposes love.
The words I want to use
are the antithesis of love
because there is no more of it in me.
I want the words I feel to grow
wings
wheels
weight
I want them to steamroll your stupid lunch,
infect your stomach with angry butterflies,
to make you feel sick with guilt
for telling me what you told her
and her
and her
and her
and her
and there are probably even more hers—
interesting hers—
and that should be all I need to know
to get on with things,
to go back
to what can never again be normal
because you’re the kind of man-scum
that poisoned my future by being perfect—
by baiting me with humor
and the kind of thoughtful intelligence
that raised the temperature
in all those rooms
where I ended up naked
beneath your unholy perfection,
which, really, should have been the only
red flag
I needed to see
in order to know that words like
tears
burn
agony
misery
suffering
heartbreak
would create the tall tower
from which I would wave this white flag—
but you want me to stay put
out of the way
out of your way
after you had your way
after you decided it was time to move on—
and all I asked for was
an answer
a why
a reason
an explanation
a how could you do this to me
again?
Please please please
please
please
pleeeeeeeeeeze
don’t make me ask again
don’t make me turn this into another poem
no one will care about or read—
floating in the vicinity of your compassion
which
clearly
no longer encompasses me.

*****
DeMaris
12-3-2020