i’m living off the crumbs from his table
last week’s leftover takeout
counting my dimes to buy a bottle of wine
when i should be positioning roses
this time i can’t turn the trick
lambasting those i love
in a poorly worded soliloquy
airing my dirty laundry publicly
like an entitled tart
drug dreams and filthy phantoms
occupying the sacred space
in between you and me
while the wild days are
put six feet under
during a fistfight at a funeral
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