This bitter endgame theory
is the remnant of us
tightly clutched in a loose collection
of dulled hidden blades I kept in
empty sugar pill bottles
for moments such as these
My shallow breath slowing
showing
nothing left but hesitation marks manifesto readings
to stave off never lasting mob stompers
losing control of thought criminal empires
All is lost with wounds swabbed in hopes of growing cultures
not inundated by murderland vultures
cackling that doomsday clock apocalyptic-talk
as they pick apart failed crop circles
The past is in the past but remains so tense
as you stand revolted by wretched plans
while wrenching cold calculating razors from my hand
because being allowed to touch seemed so unattainable to me
in the first place
and now that you're gone
I
am
so
scar struck.