Human Faces (or Human Phases)

But Not Wishes, or Hopes, or Dreams

I lie to myself to get through the day,
because I might do something rash if I didn't,
although I have convinced myself
how poetic it would be
if I shot myself right in the head
in my empty bedroom
during the family's last night here.

I don't know where I'd get a gun,
especially on such short notice,
since we only have three or four days left,
but I would sit up against the wall,
right around where you took your last breath,
and I would stick that cold metal in my mouth,
and I'd pull that damned trigger.

The walls would bleed red,
and so would my heart,
but it would all be over.

I lie to myself to get through the day,
because I know I would do something rash if I didn't,
although I have convinced myself
how poetic it would've been
if we'd shared that liquid nightmare
in the empty park;
it would've been our last night here.

I don't know if we would've vanished,
but it's not hard to imagine,
since there turned out to be more than we bargained for,
but we would have sat together on a bench,
or maybe against a tree or by the swings,
and we would have held onto one another for dear life,
but dear life would've been ours no longer.

The night would have enveloped us,
as we enveloped each other,
but it would all have been over.

I lie to myself to get through the day,
because I will do something rash if I don't.