Riveting, wiring

I’m far too high, to be embarrassed-

about my thin and flaking skin

or forgetting you hate The Decembrists

smoking too much

wanting to bruise break

Mend,

your pretty, delicate wrists.

Does it make you squirm, all this evidence? 

Of how I was confident in feeling

the obscenity of cards from lovers

cruel photographs of dead friends.

And is it really your mind, that keeps you shouting

Marching

cracking slightly as the crowd fades? But listen-

Did you ever pick blackberries?

Pull purple-tongued on pig tails,

Or sneak off with the older ones

to taste sharper, unusual fruit?

Don’t worry, don’t answer.

Back on earth, I’ll feel intrusive

And you will never melt.

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