Saturday, April 23, 2011


The taste of iron,
the eroticism of
someone else’s pain.
None of it is our fault.
We are true
to our natures.
We wrap sins
previously paid for
in butcher paper
and pray to the figurines
in the attic.

We need something to lean on
and the gables' stiff creaking
leads us to believe that
someone still lives here.
Someone to bleed.

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