We the depraved

I drank that last glass, for us, because we're all so afraid
we make people like us by feeding them inaccuracies
it's odd how much we praise self-loathing as if
loving something is a concept altogether too fragile
for our unforgiving bones, we've strangled that word enough
straining it thin through beatnik lust fingers
Oh we the depraved! If only we could muster the bravery
to cut off these hands that only chase trails of smoke
like our bodies were vaguely limbs branching off the grey haze


I spent all my waking time decorating for a wedding that
never existed, now I keep all of my windows locked
and sentences in fragments