Know Thyself

I wish that my speech was always
puppies and rainbows and butterfly kisses
in the morning with the scent of rain
in the air and on your skin.

The passion that burns and blinds
really isn't heat and radiant energy
as you suppose
Light and warmth and comfort.

Rather it is a coldness that burns you
hard and desolate and vast
it fogs every vision of hopefulness
and causes those close to tremble
and shake and gradually become numb

and my speech, when you ask me what I'm thinking
is like that awkward time between the gunshot
and the dinner table when your steak appears
brilliantly succulent.
It is carnage and blood and entrails
falling to the ground as skin is violently,
methodically separated from flesh.

So, I know you almost always regret asking
that question who's answer is never about
puppies
or rainbows
or butterfly kisses.