don’t tell me it was for nothing - you know all too well i only deify what’s not good for me. i gut your sorrows one by one, surgical atonement at the butcher shop, knit together the damaged bones. i mould them into relics. it’s blurry, freckled with rain out. you ignore occurrences of tunnel vision. i am foregone. i sit doll-like in rooms after the delirium of black light parties. i study the outline of the murder by which i mean, the baseline of the universe. by which i mean, the fissure of your body. i watch the milk spoil (like our love). mornings we burned our tongues on overcooked words, the cigarette you left in the kitchen, a funeral for your teenage habits, a prodrome of all your kid-your-parents-warned-you-about achievements. the way the blood vessels clog the necrotized heart, your throat chalk-full with absinthe, a childhood revision of daddy’s latest sin. remember the town house? the newspaper boy bringing the latest world-ending headline to our doorstep, the suicide lake with its dead swans? somehow it always ends in dull mutations of tv static, saying grace around a table of estranged ghosts.