Please Don’t Call Back When the ‘Shrooms Wear Off

a poem

This morning,
sickened by twin tsunamis
of rage and shame, I refused
to unpack. My blood as cold
as an ocean, holding
my old persona
at arm’s length
like a diseased rag;
the years did nothing
to compromise the allure
of its lies. A dead man’s
identity slipped
over the shoulders
of my best suit
as smoothly as a coat
of shattered glass,
just as they remembered,
just as I dreaded.

Haircut, shoes polished, double klonopin–
please realize
I’m not safe here.
One day maybe
you’ll understand loss,
or more importantly,
sacrifice. My west coast tour
has run its course,
worn down its forward momentum;
everywhere, dozens of doors
close, click, slam shut behind me,
bolting, barricading, drowning
out the screaming beaches,
the roar of the Silver Falls
to which I’ve already
bid farewell:

Loss. Vacating
the one place I truly loved
for the well-being
of another: Sacrifice.
I’ll do whatever I have to.
You go on,
do whatever you want.

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