Our bones were sticks, and we grabbed 'em all together; threw 'em in a pile, and lit 'em all on fire.
I thought we'd keep 'em burning, but your shadow kept blowing out the blues and reds and yellows.
I was wrong.
I thought you'd stick around I thought you might try to have some fun, but you left the check for next month's rent in the mailbox; not even on the kitchen counter.
I was wrong,
And now I got a tongue, real slick, and whiskey to chase back daggers;
red stingers, stretched and fresh, holding in between my copious veins.
I prefer to think the title has no ****** connotation.
The second part has some connotations, obviously, but the first part is less about that and more about something else.
I leave you all to determine what it means for you, but I suggest you take into account how important the title is to understanding this poem as a whole.
I really strove to piece all of it together. This is just a first draft, though. Tips and comments are appreciated, as always.