We are restless pestilence. Broken promises collect like bounced checks.
I call it “home” where I lay my broken bones.
Sticks and stones, a row of disconnected pay phones.
We are contraband smuggled through the tunnels under Wonderland.
You’ve been sleeping on the job, so here’s your reprimand.
We are breeding, multiplying in the space between the walls.
What you call living feels more like dying, if it feels like anything at all.
Wearing our hearts on our sleeves, seems you’ve forgotten what your head is for.
My blood is on your hands, and no that’s not a fucking metaphor.
We are afraid of conflict, but always at war.
And we no longer feel pain, that’s what the medicine’s for.
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