Tinged

Ends of rope
Tied effortlessly to goals
That tighten hands around scars on throats.

Arrays of murderous light.
An empty promise made
Through the haze of an addiction to destruction.
Always an excuse to remain,
Never a reason to have a spine.
Your core became a shooting gallery
For the lies you can’t give up.
Your friends…
Only examples of future ghosts.
What is it you think you’re being true to
When everything you are
Hinges on the approval of a world you despise,
Yet admire?

The ‘love’ that blossoms like cancer.

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