In broad, shaky brush strokes
That scratch across the canvas.
I understand
Why you recoil in grace at the cheap promise of safety.
Why you stammer of vague abstract treaties.
Cancerous smile.
An orchestra of
A broken angel, of crackling noise, and dull trite.
Darling, you're making a scene for no reason.
More, more, more
More weekend cults to opiate the masses. More cheap drugs to cloud our senses. More rhymeless rhymes in various tenses.
(twitch)
And flail.
I will wrap you in a lush black gown that coquettishly flicks here and there in the bitter wind that scratches across the face of God. I will tie a bow to you, a deep red bow that reflects nothing but an exercise in futility. I will bundle you up and ask are you warm and I'll push you off and watch you flail and twitch and cough and scream and beg and i will say
just die
already.
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