All We Have Is The Post Man On The Porch

Mail the dog. Male dog. Men are dogs? Mailmen are scared of dogs. My grandfather was a mailman.
He had a cat.
I can't find anyone I can trust.
I am in the shadow of one year. A year of devotion, emotion, mislead notions.
My friend says I am going to a very dark place, following, like Persephone, a lovely and sad Persephone. We followed him because he was holding a pomegranate and left a trail of seeds.

I won't believe again.
No one.
I don't believe you, and I don a hoodie and wear sunglasses,
and they only recognize me by my shoes when I walk past,
then disappear.

A long wait in the waiting room, like a prison made out of the living room full of toys.
The cold is coming.
A cold cell,
cells frozen,
a cold spell,
after the dog days of summer.
The cement held the heat like the bathtub held milk.
Cat shampoo all the way to Cat Power.

The twin tells me to go to church, I thought about making an appointment to confess.
The twin told me to get a cat, and I just went catatonic and deflected the light
coming up from the shadows. I did my time.
Hit it and quit it, as a singular mademoiselle. Sleeping on top of the sheets enjoying the heat,
because if I go to hell, it will be just like Florida anyway, where watermelon means love, and the sheets are stained with blood.
Even he says this shit is too much.
It's too much to keep lying,
yeah,
like you did to me? I say.
Then he says Yes.
We never slept. It was an exhaustive haunt through the mountains and the tunnels.
It only gets paid,
'you know, the debt,
when the flowers bloom up by themselves.
The sun comes once a year and melts the hurt until you freeze up again and remember it to the bones.
Remembering a secret, remember being ignored,
remember crying out for help when no one came,
and everyone who cared was more tired than you were-- of hearing about it.
It's the same old story.
Always.