How it will look
When the entire parish mourns
Without a child of yours
Sparing their time for it.
Love at one-quarter;
Barely the time for it.
And I am enjoying the sliver of happiness
That I will not wrestle into submission,
That I will not pin it down in some grisly collection
Where I’ve tried in the past to still all my pretty moments,
Fromaldahyd-perfect and dead.
On the wings of an unkind word.
On the breath of a misunderstanding.
On the lark of a drunken brain cell who’s hidden from me
On the pickled and petty malice rearing up in a corrupted moment….
Off with the rooks and ravens, plotting mischief.
I can admit that I’m still afraid of you.
I’m still trying so hard to be decent,
But it seems decency is the province of books.
Because everyone–and how did we ever think otherwise? –is out
Only for themselves.
Themselves and their own,
But after their own, themselves.
It should be shameful if it weren’t evolutionary.
You, oh fuck you, you romantic pretender,
You too know it’s true.
Maybe it’s more fun pretending
But we’re just as currupt as you.