Pulled asunder and seething
But alas it’s still breathing.
Goddammit I can’t seem
To erase screams from my ears.
More like bleats from some goat.
The guttural roar of begging,
Echoes.
Guilt is only in passing, Fuck You.
And if the curtains were meant to stain.
As if planned on the day they were hung.
Placed ever so perfectly.
Meant to be where they were.
The zine from memories,
Often subsides,
To silent countenance.
It is fair
For beautiful innocence
To be smashed.