You pried me open
in order to eat my heart in it's crustacean form.
Where it stared at you from the glass
piled on top of all your other casualties.
In the pseudo clambake anchor-sweater rich grandfather decor
you spotted me.
Too poor to afford the choicest, you saw me perform
my little jig across the death-arena
and under my smokescreen you slid.
a little shelter
some hot soup and a soft bed
(lean down on me)
Garnish the plate with a bottle of Xanax
maybe that blue fairy will turn you into a real boy.
Remove all that negative space
so you dont' notice the portrait at the center
it is you
it is her
it is her
it is not me.
The only god I knew was the promise
that you'd be gone when I woke
fork lodged into my chest
and you in the shower, dreaming of the sea.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment