You make a damaged statement
and every last friend walks out of your home
while you sputter your mystified apologies.
Afterward, in bed, you lie awake just long enough
to be satisfied that you didn’t retire too early;
you sleep well for a change.
Isn’t it magnificent to be completely alone
and allowed to be the freakish, broken dog
you always knew you were? This is what
your family made you for, this angelic feeling
that you would be perpetually misunderstood:
whatever would come out of your mouth,
no matter when, no matter who was around,
even them, you would say the wrong thing.
You get up, offer a whimper, a bark. It’s all
annoying. It’s all the wrong language
for those around you. Hello, you say,
but it comes out good bye. I love you,
you say, but it spills out like a popped
blister soaking the earth and it’s too late
to shut up, to stop; no one’s listening
to what they call your bullshit
You might as well eat acid, a gun barrel,
a Nazi talking point, a dagger cookie,
and a baby one right after the other. It doesn’t matter:
you’re a bad dog. They don’t want you
anywhere other than on the killing table now.
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