My Bedroom Is a Sacred Place Now – There Are Children At The Foot Of My Bed

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