Play It Again, Sam

you found me in the streets
but said i’d never know how to bleed real
emotions always seemed to scream
a severed snake voice hissing:
turn up the dial, increase the pain
ignore the cries.
i took gatsby’s great american dream by the teeth.
it was never meant for me
i can only blame myself
for biting the curb.

i’ve earned my whipping girl bruises
by crowning the locks of low lying Lucifers
who whisper vows of everlasting light.
i’ve taken their pictures and i’ve stolen
their souls like a cocaine-powered grave robber
flying on the kick of a famous last heist.
they can’t compare; they never made me feel as low as you.

even after we died
i looked back.
you were my eurydice.

heaven as home is as grandiose and american as
your mother’s apple-pie and
your father’s gun.
heaven as home as you
killed our chances
ripped apart the threads of my mythology
made days tumble into unfinished sentences
made me lose myself
to prove that heaven as home could be true.

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