this image of sid with
scrawled across his scabbed
and bleeding chest

this admission from his mother
that she bought
the shit that killed him

simple pathetic melodrama
that i carry with me for
eighteen years
until all i am is thirty-three and lost

a father driving home from
the sitter’s house after work with
my son laughing in the
back seat

with the sky a smeared glare
through a dirty windshield
and all of my bitter beliefs worn
like a second skin

and do you understand that
poetry isn’t art?

do you care?

and what about the difference
between confession and

i can’t discuss christ
without thinking of failure
and i’m tired of dissecting my past

i’m tired of the deaths that
have come to shape my life
but if they were taken away
i would only find more

we define ourselves
too easily
by these things we cannot

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