stand on the shore of

lake michigan at midnight

scream into the void

i am not your words

i am not the misplaced accolades you laid on my doorstep 

frame a picture

of what you said you were

put it in your lawn and ask passers-by

to tie ribbons on your fingers

promise of tomorrow’s fair weather

promise of today’s sway

promise you’re not yesterday’s child

sing the blues to the top of the cream

turn into bleu cheese

a metaphor for victors loving the spoiled

a metaphor for your french complaints

a line about how you diminish the value of your words

when you lie

to lay down your truths on a funeral pyre 

my hands are warm

my face is red

and I do not know why i stand so close to flames


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