To a cactclysm,
A schizoid parade of things that should not be,
Let’s all agree
that this frenzy of memory,
or schism of the mind,
Means that if someone loves one of you,
Than the rest will have to die,

Takes shaking legs and,
Tears a hole through,
Every reasonable statement,
Mutilating the names of friends into,
Countless love affairs,
An hour too late into,

Means wounds and,
Wounds mean scars,
They weren’t made for healing,
Maybe we like them just the way they are,
Warding off warriors,
Quick fixes and,
Those who think their fingerprints were first,
Hurt means there are no doctors,
But you can help her go quietly

Soars high and,
Burns like fire,
She issues no apologies for 
demons or destruction,
wreckage or war,
She is no good woman,
But knows the truth,
It turns to ashes on the tongue,

Pick one of the good ones,
Love, empathy or kindness,
Take them home, 
Strip them down,
These factions will crawl from the skin,
The empty suit that drew you in,
Can you abstain,
Will you find a way?
Will you stay?

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