tell me you love me through gritted teeth
while your demons rattle in their cages
fresh blood trails in the snow
initiate more questions than answers
sometimes I think I have an epiphany
it’s really the voices laughing at me
sometimes they argue over a chorus of steel-and-bone
sometimes they offer up death in the form of hope
or my severed head on a silver platter
because taking the time to disguise a murder is
a display of ill privilege
the wealthy need no cover-ups, no covert operations
and if you’re already well-sustained then where’s the personal risk
if you drive to close to the border in your bulletproof vest
and shout that everyone else should just calm down
as bullets rain upon them and enter their chests?
who’s the true enemy of life –
the hollow tin man,
or the murderer made of flesh?