Last year, when I wrote you my last letter
The beginning of my future poetry
I acknowledged who you really were for the first time

I didn’t call you by any other name
I let you know that I knew the true nature of your heart
That it was evil, and that it convinced me that darkness was real
That the devil is a real devil
And that monsters don’t always know that they’re monsters

But projection is an amazing thing
After you left and burnt the house down
You tried to convince me that it was I who was holding the matches
You told me that I didn’t know who I was, but I do

I love rose gardens
I plant violets every time someone leaves me
I love the great sequoias of yosemite
And if you asked my sister to describe
The first thing she thinks of when she thinks of me
She would say camp fire smoke

I’m gentle
I’m funny when I’m drunk
But I haven’t been drunk for 14 years
I go on trips with my friends to the beach who don’t know that I’m crazy
I can do that
I can do anything
Even leave you

Because my bedroom is a sacred place now
That there are children at the end of my bed
Telling me stories about the friends that they pretend to hate
That they will make up with later
And there are fresh cut flowers that I grew myself in vases
From the yard on nightstands, hand carved by old pals from big sur

And the longer I stay here
The more I am sure
But the more I step into becoming a poet
The less I will fall into being with you

The more I step into my poetry
The less I will fall into being with you
The more I step into my poetry
The less I will fall into bed with you