It’s 3 a.m., do you
know where your devils are?
Are they sleeping in the car when they should be naked in your bed, exhaling dreams, letting you touch their scars?
No, I can’t tell my ass from either elbow when fellow hellspawn propose back home has frozen over, that
lost souls we left behind have only gotten older and more fucked than they were in their heyday.
A great white North that sent me forth, because not every underworld is warm to the touch.
I could only dream of escaping, until there was nowhere to escape to.
In a life full of people with material power to change you, you’re the only one who can abstain from their chess game, in which you’re just their pawn, but the cost is catastrophic, because they even own the optics long after you’re gone.
There was absolutely no logic to rebellion at all, except that I couldn’t be wrong, but was moreso far too fond of being right.
It’s 4 a.m. but my devils won’t be home tonight, with gin on their breath and a truce in their repetoire, because that’s a relationship not usually seen twice in a lifetime,
and in mine, was the
death of any romantic spark.
I just received panic in a thousand parts, Shark Week where there should have been something resembling the human heart, but
nothing better was on TV.