. . . this piece is written pain
and patient love making
stained with purplish hues
we fake f*ckin’.
we fake safe havens.
we say fake vague
statements of love,
and they smell of dung piles
piled up on doorsteps
served with rose petals.
we settle nicely in the arms
of dark liquor puddles.
we swim away
from what’s burnin’ inside.
we hide behind
the numbness of
phone screens.
we fiends for control
who fight to feel
right at home tho . . .
