I only know how to speak plainly.
I write confessional poetry.
Harsh honesty.
I don’t know how to gloss anything over
and I never want to.
I prefer the rash and concrete.
The palpable.
The ushering of reality.
It’s vulgar.
It’s written on my face,
insanities on display.
I’ll tear open the wound,
stretch it out,
rake up what’s inside,
leave you the remnants
for exhibition.
I never have to ask,
“May I speak plainly?”