I can hear it

the bending wire
of the armistice: 
twisted and tined 
plucked high and fine
and bitten
for a taste of fast and cheap iron

a prickling thrill provokes 
like a high water line
makes me wonder
what chokes 
and what it takes
to be full
to be whole 

instead, 
the best I can do is a side of myself
and a garnish of mint 
(for color)
even while raked raw
naked,  id ask : 
"will that be all?" 

even in dying on an operating table, I'm aching to be used 
because my first love told me 
before they put me under 
that I didn't give enough 

and then they blew my candle out 
and then they blew my candle out 
and then they blew my candle out 

sight unseen, an unspoken groan 
mechanical failings , wet-eyed 
sinking 
a sterile, pillow-print nothing 
a breathless gasp
unmade, unremarkable 
welcome mat death

i remember these lips reaching 
instead of pleading 
thanking
"thank you
im sorry
thank you
im sorry" 
pendulums catching meaningless 
shaped around a mouthpiece
of nothing 

so maybe in this next life
it can be something.