I often wonder
When I’m at my lowest
When I shake and squeeze my eyes shut
At the thought of the phantoms
Chasing me,
If phantoms have a memory.
And if they do,
They, who murdered my naivety
And planted this living demon in me…
Can they even remember
What they’ve done?
Do they know the mark they left?
And if not, I think
About how great it must be
To sit yourself down, build a throne
In someone else’s land,
**** all its inhabitants; flood the streets with blood,
Get bored, and then decide
All in one small moment, that
You could just stand up
And leave.