...your words are a bandaid --
taped over exit wounds...
Sorrow sits
sour in the stomach
unnameable nebulous tortures
churn up the throat
like vomiting blood
spit against grey white pavement
in the hot sun.
_
So difficult to ignore.
_
Hollow comforts sooth nothing
your words are a bandaid --
taped over exit wounds --
shotgun brains blasted
sliding serenely down
antiseptic institutional walls.
_
So hard to scrub clean.
_
The same sick song
spins on loop
beats set on repeat
as again and again
you strike that same chord
which sets my heart thrumming.
_
Like twisting the speartip jab.
_