suicide note #10: wet condoms
If I start this off by saying he takes his wet condom when he leaves
then it’s more about him, less about the desire for evidence, more about
trust, less about the edge of the mattress and the falling sky. less about
the moment the litany turns to shatter inside the overhead light. Or
the last time I saw my mother. more about a zygote in the toilet
or an infant he and i might have held. less about the neighbor
taking out the trash under my window, less about the burn
in my stomach.
If I keep this story up by saying I never even see him do it
then it’s more about unrequited desire, less about the silence of all spiders
more about how far a woman would go to trap a man, less about
the hyena’s bloody paw in any given trap. more about
how a man must stay free and less about the patterns on the floor –
how they turn from order to distance, how they trail off to what might turn up
murdered in the hallway. It is more about what anyone wouldn’t do to be a mother
less about the old man on the balcony in a coughing fit. It is more about the boundaries
the fences, the walls, and less about this goddamn light through the leaves.
how I don’t know the word for that. how there must be a word for that.
It’s easy to die. It’s the easiest thing we can do.
and if I end this by saying I looked for it. everywhere.
then it is more about what I wouldn’t do to stay alive