[You have to feign that you cared]

You have to feign that you cared
so you do not feel the pain of yourself; but of course

that’ll only pop out as a tumour instead: rumour has it
my back still hurts from it. If I’m being honest,

the writing of this poem has murdered at least fifty-six people:
what is a blowjob between friends? Whilst I remain

upbeat: I am going to stage a grand self to pretend
this isn’t just an exercise in undoing another piece I wrote

or read—that I am not just conducting and cheating myself
and my audience: I am a master of disguise:

they don’t even know that I’m crying about it all
again (and your approaching growths). They don’t even know

whether I’m writing or reading or murdering a thing, let alone
why this is here.