I hate myself for how fast I give up on things,
especially things that matter to me.
The way every moment seems singular
in time, space.

Gravity crashes in when I see you.
Your mouth is a graveyard
Each of the teeth in your smile,
a tombstone.
You say my name as if it’s
written in stone.
Carved.

I don’t think it gets better.
You feel increasingly mortal the more
they know you on a “first-name-basis”.
Working 8 hours a day doesn’t give you
the same distance anymore.
Everybody is doing something to get high,
get altitude, relief, waste their health,
except you.

Live your life like it’s the last.
Smile, for the illusions and lies they give you
are pillows on your death bed.
The courtesy you give others;
bury the truth.

To burn the skeletons in your closet.

Bury it six feet inside you.
Keep it deep in your stomach,
so that when you speak
only the crows come out.
Your tongue is the gravel path.
Lips, black iron gates.

Your smile is a graveyard.