The Crust.

My friends are confused, complex people 
their voices ring with different truths, their hands are different sizes. 
We pluck lint from garage sale carpets and
fight white knuckled through winters of discontent, swollen with 
an invisible exhaustion, 
throwing punches at anything close enough to catch
living, breathing, us. 

We’ve been left here so many times before,
as hard to move as the daughter at the funeral,
an all encompassing collapse into pizza boxes, erotic art and the alienation of hedonism.
Our Bohemia is spread out on a bed forgetting beta-blockers,
she’s burying the hatchet but
remembering where it is

So, we’ll meet half way,
even if dragged: 
kicking down children’s model villages
or succumbing to sympathetic nervous systems
I know you’ll bite my hand off
but we’ll suck venom from one another’s wounds infinitely,
Though sometimes we are the poison,
sometimes we are the cure.
Wipe my tears away with the same calloused hands you have
slapped me with
And push the rest under a pile of smashed glass.

They won’t get to any of us,
the burrowing of millennial fear and uselessness
means we get to us enough.
But the passion (not hate) in my sister’s’ eyes
is enough 
to thaw my frigid fingers so I can 
applaud our effort to stay sane.

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