Indexing changes the tone and character of a poem. Instead of this being just a break up. It’s a cover-up.
Unquiet manacles, knot in lady like observances.
I recapitulated the way I cheerfully lied and imagined
that he is a simple, abstract version of person-hood.
I found lied and thought his transmutable arms were real.
I was the truth he doubted, existing in all of my solidness
(which he recognized) realizing that his lies could not
hold me much longer.
In all of my solidity and convictions I am concrete truth,
absorbing lies, doubts and monsters in my wet form.
Blessing them in the immortality of my thoughts as I
soak away their breath and preserve their impressions
under my skin.
No scars to show, I’ll look smooth and flat, handcuffed
to the memory of their sincere, seeming, secrets, annoyed
with my petty reluctance to see their lies. I am brave and
benevolent in my delayed ability to release my analytic
disbelief and idiocy.