Use Me

Dying has enlivened me.

I live for rain.

When did I stop writing

about love?

After too much pain?

What I wanted

hurt others

because I refused

not to be the protagonist.

Until I did.

Now I’ve no longer any need

to tell my story.

I’m free.

My mornings are spent

trying to resemble the living.

My clothes barely conceal

my absence.

People mistake me 

for one of them.

I’ve no doubt

 a dead poet is

writing through me.

The cat knows,

but no one else.

Living is very distracting.

And love always

wants us to

kill ourselves.

I let it happen.

I am being used.

It’s okay

because everything
matters now.

I was willing to step aside

and let my tongue shrivel

up like an apple 

too loved by the sun.

I can relate.

After too much loving

I begged to be locked away.

Give me a rocking chair.

Let me 

cry to Mahler.

But I digress.

I have since

found employment,

the miracle so far behind me

that remembering is tricky,

if not mythological.

I can no longer keep it 

here.

It keeps me.

Peter Valentyne

March 1, 2019