rabid midnight miscalculations under a streetlamp

fuck you and your little dog, too
I've had enough--you can't
force me to submit, I don't
run around in circles chasing
my own tale and I
sure as hell don't carry any
sad tunes to play on my itty bitty
violin, what makes you think
you can pick me up like some
kind of  raccoon-eyed streetwalker?
me under
the lamplight, looking for a key
to what the Pandora in me has opened
a thousand times before, trust me,
there wasn't anything in there but a
few poets dwindling away the dull day,
and if you should come back again
like a needle to a thread, I'll stitch
up your mouth
so you'll never have
anything more to say;
what is mine alone to brush away--
these sodden words of love
like so much dirt over freshly dug graves
flowers already wilting, our names
not yet engraved.

I am foaming at the mouth with memories.
I abhor their emptiness and

I don't know how to end this poem.