These things belong on a shelf Like a bottle of tears that looks like a stuffed animal And a pillow case that became a great transport of rage, Amidst the dust and clutter Runs my subconscious animal seeking blood, meat, Retribution and the slightest gain Through the wires of the human body Cut and casually rearranged.
These things are purposed As notches in a Grecian urn Cold reminders of a worthwhile mistake Taken astride and antiqued For me, for you, betokened at my expense Because I need to eat, occasionally oddly, And when the stomach canβt trust the hands Your clothing stays close to your body.
These things are like dresses on a library, Dressing the dirt underneath As life preservers full of water, full of wine But these are situational traumas And never lacking their angel wings Defective and cuckolding self-esteems next to me Hold hands at the bottom of the ebb and flow Of human misery or ecstasy,
Just maybe itβll hurt too much this time, As revenge for my laughing at its brothers.