when do street lights
in ghost towns decide to flicker
until it recognizes its lack of purpose?
glistening gallows
bountiful burlesque
a kind of love that grabs the hand
that looks the most familiar
on days when the sun
glistens on skin that isn’t
patched against yours.
profanity becomes a prisoner
in your rib cage.
decaying but alive,
like ghosts that draw breath.
blindly fumbling
hungry greedy mouth
with eager needy hands
a strange audacity—
a smirk on the corner of your lips
veiling the corruption
between your teeth
i’ve made a habit of making my
tongue bleed
but that’s never going to come close
to the blood drawn
from your grenade-ricochets.
detonate my pulse
in all the ways you had ever
intended.
punic faith.
lungs brimming with fib.
stern and destructive.

how would one know
what to do with all this hurt?