power and nothing beautiful

we are exhausted
from the black box guilt
under the waves, the drinker’s need
that carries us home to make believe once,
briefly, we had a lot to say.

what I remember each morning
isn’t harmless. what we outlived at home
strikes, retreats every comfort, every dreaming
secret insisting on its own innocence.

I begged to be a third person candle
inside a groaning pumpkin husk -
this rehearsal making me glow.