Her tiny fingers untying knots
A well traveled paperback on her lap
She ran out of matches trying to burn down her bad habits
Endless sparks struggled on satin
Started stealing paper planes
Stopped accepting hand-me-downs
She puts her ear to the past tense now
Finding little more than little girl gowns
So if you’re going to drown,
Drown in your own fucking abstract, acerbic assonance
Let go.
I know who I am
Nothing more than carbon
Locked in a travel case
Chained to the corpse of the finest family man
Dressed up in his best three-piece disfigurement
He goes hiding in my favourite birthdays
Count your matches
I've got some glue,
Find me an obituary
And we'll do make and do.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment