I was not enough dead leaves,
Back to the bark of the tree;
We never even made it out of this one,
You’ve been an illusion with an
Old violin,
A strung-up strung-out and I was just
Dead again and didn’t know it.
I would have given you my shoes I would have
Given you my fingernails and my good, strong molars.
I wanted for you to walk out of here.
You’re stuck in an old poem that I didn’t write or that I did write but don’t remember, or that I hanged from a tree to force anthropomorphism.
You weren’t worth the salted butter, you make me sick.