Your polycystic heart bleeds through the dim lit window
of a low-income apartment building
just a few blocks away.

I sit alone on the bathroom floor and
it takes me **** near twenty minutes to take apart the razor blade.
You have to take care not to pry too hard,
otherwise the blades will cut up your fingers.

And no, that irony is not lost on me.

Imagine what was a wall,
covered in twisted metal
and oil and filth and dust;
the tracks still in tact,
for they must be.
They must.

Play it backwards,
you will see,
the potential lives
I used to seize.

Play it forward,
close your eyes;
here comes the wreck,
here come the cries.

And *******!
It can't get worse.

I said, ‘*******!
Rewind this curse.’
*******!  *******!
We’d best reverse.

And *******!
We've all seen worse.
I swear, *******!
Just stop the hearst.

*******!  *******...
This can’t get worse.
*******.. *******..
this is no first.