on beating chests.when iwas young my mothercalled me heartless
lead tocomradeship with those whowere sparked a strange admiration
forthe sociopaths iknewenvying theirloveless lives full
ofdedication dedication toslicing up loveless bodies ofinnocents
the degree in which they could find the lifeless stare tocomfortas
the brush ofa lovers hand on a chestfilled with one day i found my
empty bottle through idonotrememberhoworwhy orwhere butsomething
threwme back tothe ocean i had crawled outofiam only twenty
twoyoung notold enough todie forthe sins ofmomquite yet idontknowif
ihave feltthe brush oflove through cinderdust chestofif imimagining
ted and johns cries tostirmy conscious disgustof unconvincing
nation
