Tonight I will write living off as a luxury
too drawn-out and exhausting for the weary
(even after seven years and eighteen nondescript pieces
you still don't understand.)
This five-act tragedy was never ours
—don't flatter yourself with these meant-to-bes—
Today the sky could fall and the curtain could close
and you could give me a smile, a wave, a yes.
We will go the same way as them, then, these
prima donnas past their prime rehearsing dusty lines
the words straitjacketed and suffocating
beneath their archaic confines,
centuries of mindless glorification.
(Would you scream for me, baby?
Anything to let me know you're not just dying for nothing.)
In a moment
the secrets will slip
from your chopstick fingers
so many pieces of china
suddenly rough-edged and dangerous
stripped of the illusions. We've tamed our words
for far too long.