What I Didn't Want You to Know

It was August, maybe September,

blistering hot on the beach.

Murky Florida ocean – a broken heart –

your doing.

You’re doing fine, though, moving on.

Or so they say – they’ve said a lot.

But I stand with pieces, like seashells in a bucket,

of myself in my pocket.

A lit cigarette. An empty bottle.

I never was one to take so long to bounce back,

but I don’t want you to know any of this.

There was no profound effect here to feed your ego.

No, the ocean would wash it away – profoundly

affecting nothing. Salt water

ebbing closer to my chipped nail polish.

It was ready to take me in, and

I was ready to go.

(And you would have followed me

to the grave – you said later,

when all was well.

A loaded shotgun).