turning up the volume
to something that should
already be there
marked by a number
that shouldn’t hold you so tightly
by the throat
by love affair convictions
flowers full of poisoned pollen
all the “i’m sorry’s”
all the “i’ll do better until tomorrow’s”
hallmark cards telling bedded lies
and giving off sharp fingered gestures
no one cares about
scapegoat advances
one-way avenues
that part away from the center
locked cannon devices on standby
all the “forgive me’s”
all the “i didn’t mean it’s”
being shoved under the rug
hoping no ripples form
fuck your red paper hearts
left on my skin
you, choking on
your own caramelized
twisted truths
lips salty
setting traps to catch
white chocolate
virgin suicide girls
just so you can tell
them how much to bleed
in your burning bed
full of spit and fabricated storylines
all will eventually fade
in the background
soaking up anything left to steal
(C) S. Lynette, 2023