January

I’d rather not.

Please, don’t make me.

I’ve killed you off so many times
in my head, I wouldn’t know
what to do with you
should you face me.

Walk the other way.
For someone who’s so imperfect,
you sure know how to
make me feel small –
but won’t you have a little mercy, baby? January
is when you lost me,
and every year
around this time

I strip myself bare,     like clockwork,

but maybe you just don’t want this debt paid back.

I guess
I’ll just try to bury the knife a little deeper.
And maybe this time,
I wouldn’t be
so inclined to kiss you back to life.

It sinks in,

drip drops,

music,
rehearsed lines and all;
perfect acting. Surreal.
It’s not murder if you’re
still fucking alive.

I know,
I know,
you’ve heard it all before.
I’ve seen it a million times.

I’m just recycling old dreams
because I’m running out of new ones.