Even the phone roars
From the table.
Black messenger's boot,
Kicking me in the face.
The ship's anchor has settled in my stomach.
I spit lead.
Chain after chain
pulled through my eyes,
dripping.
The lies.
And I thought I had done
it wrong.
Looking at the rust,
gaping hole.
The water floods,
Iron teeth drinking it in,
Drinking it in.
Who could have seen to this?
Such utter bliss,
divides between the
snide remarks.
How you arch your back,
There was no tracking it.
Predicting the attack.
Fact.
That thing I don't want to concern myself with,
and continue to live,
trapped.
















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