To speak is difficult after

I refuse to speak to you, you and you
after
you tore apart
so many of my things
and hung them
in a museum of horrors:

there was my heels which you
drove into the ground,
round and round and round,
a merry go mound, and spat on
just to polish up the act,
only silence could punish
a you like you,
sometimes it hurts too much
to call you even a you.
I'd rather call you, HE or a ghost
or even a skeletal scream
who rattles my deviant
moans,
the sharpened hones
of unholy knives.

After calling me silly,
you sliced me dilly-dally,
made my sense of righteousness
into a joke
fit for a royal rake,
and drank up whatever was good in me
over a deck of
cards?

After years and beers
and grasses and doses and
works of silence,
you expect me to say that
I may actually not
dislike you?