We lost ourselves in confident words,
fastidious bones trembling until the very day God told us to stop.
Stop carving our mistakes into our feckless skin,
ashamed because we are prisoners to our own game.
We’ll always find a relapse, some ******* way
to return to the gloomy, trashed basements
with the sign hanging over the door that reads,
“turn back now.”
And though turning back means endless labyrinths
of dead birds,
and throbbing heart beats spinning on record players
that we just end up breaking, we break with them.

the lights are low but the scorching fire can't be put out,
chandeliers hang overhead,
you wonder if you're better off dead.