very rough; please bare with.

before noon he's managed to fumble
the ball a dozen or so times.
before the evening news he shall
know no pain; those secrets
he keeps aren't for anyone's eyes.
she says she ain't got a clue
but they both know when he
visits the porcelain god to
vomit and she sits by his side, patiently
holding his hair back and happily
humming a country song, a lullaby.
that's when they know they both know
and neither one knows what to do.
this has gone on far too long, he agrees
but disagrees when she begs
of him to cease and dismiss before
it's too late, before all the damage
is irreversible. yet, he says no thank you,
he can't, it's been his security
blanket since before he knew the power
his words held in the realm of literature.
a poet, a sinner, a saint and a failure;
all these and more before his thirteenth
birthday- overdose before twenty- no
romance has ever successfully been able
to balance the scales, to ease his fever
into a suitable, comfortable temperature.
but then again there was one summer
so long ago now, he isn't even sure
any longer if it was a hallucination or real.
the girl he found placid and benevolent to her
actions has long since vanished, transformed into
a beautiful bride for another man and if only
he could ask of her, 'was it true? did we feel
those things story books tell us in fictitious lies?'
but the past is best to remain buried, she says.
he agrees but Jezebel ain't here no more
to burden my decisions with infidelity- temptress
no longer; but the sun remains in the sky
to highlight my sinning ways, this virtuous promise
of nothingness; baby, can we just act like i not here?
this burden of everything, the spotlight of poetry
it just has become too much for me to bare-
alone, here, i shall rot wishing you knew the tale.