the prettiest red dots

She is a denial
she is the end
her wordless mouth
has doomed me to this
She is my shaky crutch
and she knows nothing at all
If she did know
her silence would end
with violent rhetoric, hysterical laughter
A grown man
should not feel this way
I should remember that
I should write it down,
make a list
and fill it with all the things
I know I shouldn't do
But I know how hard
it is to cross things off
At least my emotional chaos
is organized
When I bleed,
I make the prettiest red dots
If I squeeze hard,
I can write your name.