Spoiler! :
Photographs on the wall
of glory days long gone.
They laugh and mock me,
but their eyes are hollow like letters to an ex-lover;
the only thing their hearts beat now
is the dust that shakes from fake flowers
stolen from a graveyard
and the malt venom that drips
from the shards of an intentionally-broken glass.
They have it easy I suppose.
Their knuckles aren’t cut to the bone,
with chips of glass and some kid’s teeth stuck in,
and their guts aren’t spread all over town
where carrion pick them off like it’s some sick game.
Sirens still sing,
but they’re at the bottom of the river,
pinned down by boulders lazily discarded,
and images of the sky and ill-
considered enjambment.
Self-aware jokes can only stand up so long,
and mermaids and scotch under the rocks
run out of breath too fast.
There is blood on my hands,
but I’ve forgotten who it belongs to.
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