You might think that I was lying
When I told you that I masturbate three times a day.
The problem with the death of God
Is that He, if not my roommate, would understand
What happened on his bed.
I'd like to know someone who understood
That the longest closest lover that I had
Was a man who would not call more than once a month.
In the fifteen years I had at home
Silence crept in to my heart.
It broke around the edges and made me.
The "fascinating mind" you tell me that I have
Is from the interaction with the world
That silence creates.
The plants that you gave me for my birthday
Are in my office and dying
Obscenely.
I could have been a poet.
But I had the choice to go mad, and instead cut my wrists
And the voices from the radiator were offended.
And now I only hear them when I go to bed sober and alone.
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