we are impossible beings
with meat scrap hearts
rope burned tongues.
life drones on in this weary sort of
sonata
beautifully sad,
a whining violin with empty chords.
bedrooms frighten me
because
its just do this
and then hands are scraping around in my pants.
this type of thing becomes normalcy
and the thunder roars and i can hear your
******* throat screeching
at me from darkened rooms with
broken ceiling fans.