It’s over, baby, time has ushered me to crawl back
into the woodwork, holy isolation, that familiar dark.
I’ve disturbed my own vanishing act just to send
a shiver of a verse in your direction. I’ve whittled
away my life, become a termite, chewed the splinters
until I spit concrete. Built an armor with that, fortress
to hide within, and in silent safety sleep. But I returned, 
and with brevity, exigency, gagged up my dregs of peace.
Forfeited mementos, showed you the soft, raw seams 
in the underbelly of my best defenses. God, let me
be anything but honest. I am jaded of this dirty work.
Truth has such an acidic taste. There’s no more life
left to carve from. I’m gnawing marrow now, words
coughed up render sharp and stripped, unapologetic.
But I tire of such brutality, the infliction. I am not harmed,
but I’d rather not shriek from your walls. Don’t let me
crave more things that are not mine. My open mouth
is always hungry, even if opening just to test what rhymes.