floors

and i could not help but
pull the trigger and fucking die.

a member of a generation under the influence
of car bombs and headlights
consencrating innocence in the cracks of tile kitchen
floors
a rose that was never anything but 1.99
wilting like post-modern idealism
in a vase of spoiled water
because we are loving like it's suicide and no one can stop us from
K I L L I N G ourselves
as we try to find ways to break one another's hearts
in the beds of random i-don't-know-what-i-was-thinkings
losing underwear and smearing makeup under sweat and heavy eyelids
while i bend the last few cigarettes in half
so i have a reason to go to the gas station
and do not have the time to convince you
that it is only smoke bothering my eyes

-fin.