we can whither and write,
deploy ourselves into whichever battles we choose,
but by nature the word replaces our actions.
that's the secret to our beautiful failure.
our goal is to look like the hero without
having to take the scars handed out.
scars insinuate pain, and the perpetrator of prose
excels at advertising pain, not participating in it.
we're all fucking morrisey.
some great big joy division record spinning out
of control.
those precious little cum stains wearing girlpants
and pasting hair over an eye and lording into
their own visceral experience at the fuckin' mall...
that's the future of us.
that was me and you.
slobbering tears all over the ambiance, competing for
an audience.
have some fucking dignity.
... just can't handle so many reflections of my self.
Birth sign: Cancer
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