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Bandage and gauze your cancer

Dried leaves fill my bedroom

Carving your grapefruit skull

Piggy bank your empty soul

The Ides are not in the grace of your fucking favor.

These kids have no one to talk to.

An unfading carrot-on-a-stick complex.

Unveil my scars to thunderous laughter.

I’d chew a handful of cyanide pills and vomit

them in your mouth like you were my young

if it meant dragging you to hell with me.

Hoisted. Skewered.