I'm all out.

I'm all out of poetry.

I'm all out of bedside prayers and forced conversation. All out of used tissue and hanging light bulbs. All out of evidence and skin. Sorry ma'am. Sorry sir. I'm all out.

My broken body's been taken off the menu. You can't order my hands anymore. I was a limited edition item, a seasonal special. You can't drink my blood as holy communion or pull me from the bottom of the breadbox, piece by piece. I died for you. I died for you.

I'm the happy prince's lead heart lying next to the dead swallow and I gave my eyes away a long time ago. The angels will sing "hallelujah, hallelujah" because of my beating heart. They never rest their elbows on the table and they never talk with their mouths full. They never use the wrong fork and they know how to butter their bread.

I'm all out of poetry.
We're chanting yes we can, yes we can, but the words don't reach our hearts.
We're screaming no you can't, no you can't, but their hands still force legs apart.

My lungs are full of water and I'm praying in five different languages, but no one can hear me.
My lungs are full of water and I'm all out of poetry.

Symbols are cynics and synonyms are pretentious. Metaphors never answer their phones and personification is overused by the best of us. The words don't want to get out of bed anymore. Every breath is labored and the doctors are still working on a diagnosis.

I'm all out of poetry.
All out of black pen, blue pen, lack pen, new pen.
All out of one stare, two stare, they share, no one cares.
All out of he she you we.
All out of poetry.