Carving a spot in line towards the edge.
Spending time trying to hide inside the cracks,
but the thorns on these weeds wrap around the joints
and this all starts to crumble into the sand,
finding a hand in the company of dust.
You say, “it’s just a cough—it’s a passing phase,
you’ll grow old and over it”—must just be a craze.
Some pieces of candy on the counter, wrapped in a bow,
tagged as a heart-shaped remedy.
Took a piece and five and heard a drifting scream.
I suppose it’s a melody.
You say, “just walk away—it’s the changing day,
you’ll grow old and over it.”
And in the chasm under these eyes, the color sinks,
the whole thing stinks of a self-fulfilled betrayal,
and you’re handing out invitations in the mail.
You say, “it’s only fair—it’s just for you,”
but where the hell were you?
I’m here—held deep and down—
now sincerely holding henceforth:
Wherever you stay,
the places you leave and the ones you remain,
Go hug a cactus and you’ll understand the warmth you lack.
( ❤ Mitch)
