You cry and scold me for not consoling you,
like this fountain breaking out of your face
does not make you beautiful.
Or isn’t that the reason for tears?
You will say I do not understand again.
Do not ask me to narrate vacation.
Do not force me to gaze into your eyes.
Just how easily can you gift a smile?
Must I, too, paint this burden on my face?
Make a wrap of my cheeks,
a ribbon of my lips
and unbox a case of teeth?
Just let my scripted tongue juggle,
Just let me be this alliteration,
this ritual, this rehearsing rivulet of repeat.
I have written this poem before
and stacked them up like a tower of white bricks
until it comes scattering down
and I remain cursed with a language only I understand.
But in this story, I am both the builder
and the god.
Tomorrow I will do the same.
No line will be altered, no word omitted;
The end will not change, not change,
will not change.