it wasn’t all wrong
Our tears fall down our faces
like blood down the walls
of revolutionary buildings
and emotion is an open wound
collapsing inward on our souls
we gloss over our reality
like it’s a cavity
and the drill doesn’t hurt
joy is merely being content
with the stinging pain of history
and our sadness is discomfort
in the face of what takes place
we are empty, bound to histrionics
our hearts break like plexi-glass
triumph is avoiding damnation
stay in good health — don’t die
failure is a beating drum
that succeeds us on our journey
I am the hunter.
You are the deer.
I’m so fucking sorry.