Books

 
Never mind how my teeth have rotted from the letters of words you put in my head
Or the way my scar still itches from the time we burned our notebooks on the tracks

What's important is the false pretense of misery we bred

Starving under radio towers
Standing next to electrified fences wanting summer
Or just some spring so the garbage won't freeze

Cough
Cough
Dying
Cough

All for the dead men we thought we knew. Meanwhile the very few that loved us suffered in a way we wished for, wrote for.