There you stand in my hand
fingers holding the weight
of guilt and failed potential.
We’re both creased with deceased
dreams, veined in a desperate
momentary need and sequential
death. It’s just a matter of time.
Our worlds collapse, perhaps
explode, and inevitable drips
and drabs are the last breaths.
Messy business this mental illness.
No justifying from these lips,
no life left in these little deaths.
It’s a crime, a fucking crime.
11/2/10
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