I Wish I Could Paint so I Wouldn’t Have to Spell it Out so Plainly

I want to live so much it makes me want to die.

I feel it in the hour by hour gone by.

I feel it in the pull of the waves at the edge of the shore.

I feel it in the sense that I’ve become a whore,

not for sex but for pain.

The singular striking catharsis of your name.

The multitude of my shame.