i am writing this from my grave.
my nails are torn, bloody,
worn down from scratching at the lid
of the coffin you made for me.
i was very pretty once,
before you pulled my life
out through my hungry mouth.
facebook reminds you it’s my birthday.
does it feel like being finger-fucked in an open wound?
or have you already buried my ghost so far in the ground
that i’m just mild heartburn after dinner?
come on, baby, take your clothes off,
and show me again how little i mean to you.
those hot whiskey lies never taste as good
as they do when you’re the one forcing them down my throat.
yes, darling, you were a mess,
but i liked all of your parts.
oh yes, darling, even when i couldn’t
put them back together.
