You are asking me what I want for breakfast and I'm telling you about how when the worst thing happened,  I didn't even cry. You're handling me a receipt from the laundromat down the street and I'm passing you a bundle of letters that I wrote when I was fourteen and scared . You're passing me the milk after you drip it into your coffee and I'm half laughing about the psychiatrist's office and how there's actually a couch and it's made of blue tweed. You're trying to do the normal things and I'm throwing up dull pieces of truth onto our kitchen table.  I can't lie anymore. These are the things I have done and they're mostly sad. These are the places i have been and they're mostly awful. This life has woven itself  into the notches of my spine and I hear it creak everytime I stand