Feeling fixed and declawed,
like the room is dog-eat-dog.
it's not your fault;
I'm high as a Christ.
You've gone to find yourself,
sleazing 'cross the commonwealth.
In secret, you know who you are:
You're made of the people
you use and discard.
And we'll always love you,
but you're making it hard to.
Our destruction is mutually-a**ured:
I've waved the bloody shirt once or twice,
filthy with envy of the hollow little victories
you sell me to try and make nice.
A parasite for sore eyes when you boast of your host,
to abandon our past as ancient ruins us both.
I feel like your ghost.