Carve his initials in my arm
To remind me of what I’ve lost.

This is not enough pain to bring me happiness.
The screeching machines and de-tuned radios
Bring forth music you’ll never hear
As he hands me off to someone else
To rid himself of the problem.
I’ll dig up that rotten corpse of a past
As if the present weren’t enough.

Run, faggot, run.
Run to the mechanical noise
That blocks out the familiar voices
Screaming in my home.

We are ever-present.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *