The polyester cardigan grows thin As I nervously tug at its tiring seam The silence does not dare to lessen And I dare not to break the stream That fills this exhausted space We so ashamedly know
Please, just turn on the radio To drown out my thoughts Of Yours.
I have already decided it will be another six months And Guilt has already welcomed himself Tearing through the bones Pulsing. Agony, pain.
Take him away. This Guilt is Yours.
I dread the day that I will see the water fall from your eyes, the same squinted hazel as mine, Your shoulders will give in and Collapse, Your chest it will shake, like my old rattler, as we attempt not to relapse.
But I truly dread the following day, as I will hear that radio play.