this home is not a pentagon.
split the wound in quarters,
four wheels, a driver, a crash
lingering bruise, nineteen year old ****
five miles of forest, incinerating
it's his fire, we're in pieces, we are orange confetti
beneath stone i bury words, like roots in the ground
and lately i've seen flowers in everyone's hands
hide the truth, share the shoes, split the wound:
blood clots keep us locked in like a noose
her heart is a house, and he's charring the rooms
so i'd rather no roses than have my hands stained
the sweet stench, a bleeding dead thing, suffocates
and there is a warmth in the soil where i lay
sweep the ashes, close the door, turn away
if trees are your candles, breathe in this decay
split the **** wound! This man is a cage.