Hilarious. Hilarious because it’s true.
I am seriously living in a hybrid of Twilight Zone and Punk’d episodes.
Front row seat. Buckle up.
Must not feed the trolls.
Title says it all, and I fucking recommend it.
Son of a bitch, everything’s real.
so now I see
that it has nothing to do with me
and everything to do with
(insert appropriate term here);
like a victorian,
you are so haunted.
your switches, love,
reflected at you like banners
you mistake as mine
as the fabric tangles about your ankles
tripping you as you try to escape yourself.
scapegoats are painted red
and you’ve set me ablaze
with your psychic flames.
I’m the wick this round,
but I guess it’s easier for you today.
and I’m nauseous:
I don’t even know what I did
but the guilt pitting my stomach
tells me I must’ve done…
why doesn’t he love me?
oh, these triggers
must be impossible.
now imagine living them?
toeing a line between…
well, past and future,
I imagine is the answer.
throw the switch
and neither one of us is prepared.
sobbing in my car
that night in the fog,
hiding my face in the hood of your grey sweatshirt
and praying, hoping for a call that never came.
no amount of fishing line draws you in,
I will persevere,
sitting with a clean conscience under that forest tree
with faith that one day,
you will lay your head in my lap
and we will both be saved.