I heard about those merchants down the street

And how you’ve put your pride up for sale

Darling take down those shelves

And carry every last bit of dignity to the ocean

Where those twins told us about that drowning

And how Virginia Woolf of you

I’d promise you a garden burial

Watch you push daisies

But we’re past that stage now

So please whisper me nostalgia

And I’ll brush my apathy under the bed

Those fragmented bones, those pureed organs

That spill from your pockets

They leave us leaning on the incisors of winter

And I cannot promise you anything anymore

Like our own personal portraits

Let us hang up our insides on the walls

Hollow ourselves out till we are the shell we crave to be

And when all those dead butterflies spill from your stomach

I’ll break my knees, crush my teeth and sew my lips shut

Like scarecrows

I feel T.S Eliot would be mighty proud