Here I am,
the king of letting good things die.
My fingers are dark magic talismans, and sometimes they’re wrapped around everything.
My lungs have evolved to only breath air violated with toxins and rot.
But most importantly,
my burning, black skull remembers it all.
I remember being a child struck dumb and motionless beneath my mother. That midnight skull still wears the scar where it was cracked open on the concrete.
I remember the sound of the gun
while watching a suicide. And sometimes I still taste my friend’s brain matter in my mouth.
I remember my father slicing him arms open with cheap knives while he stood at my daughter’s grave.
My eyes still sting every now and then and I think maybe it’s his blood still clinging there where I tried to wipe the tears.
I remember the sound of a phone ringing
the night a sweet…
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