Our bones were sticks,
and we grabbed 'em all together;
threw 'em in a pile,
and lit 'em all on fire.
I thought we'd
keep 'em burning,
but your shadow kept blowing out the
blues and reds and yellows.
I was
wrong.
I thought you'd stick around
I thought you might try to have some fun,
but you left the check for next month's rent
in the mailbox;
not even on the kitchen counter.
I was
wrong,
And now I got a tongue,
real slick,
and whiskey to chase back daggers;
red stingers, stretched and fresh,
holding in between my copious veins.
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 3:48 AM UTC
Our bones were sticks,
and we grabbed 'em all together;
threw 'em in a pile,
and lit 'em all on fire.
I thought we'd
keep 'em burning,
but your shadow kept blowing out the
blues and reds and yellows.
I was
wrong.
I thought you'd stick around
I thought you might try to have some fun,
but you left the check for next month's rent
in the mailbox;
not even on the kitchen counter.
I was
wrong,
And now I got a tongue,
real slick,
and whiskey to chase back daggers;
red stingers, stretched and fresh,
holding in between my copious veins.
I prefer to think the title has no ****** connotation.
The second part has some connotations, obviously, but the first part is less about that and more about something else.
I leave you all to determine what it means for you,
but I suggest you take into account how important the title is to understanding this poem as a whole.
I really strove to piece all of it together. This is just a first draft, though. Tips and comments are appreciated, as always.
Thanks,
Chris
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