begging for change, but I have plenty of shrapnel
plenty of money, plenty of sunny friends with open arms, open hands and closed ears
does she even really care about me? it's hard to tell. i think so. i hope so.
mainly because i don't allow any of my real feelings to show on the surface - happy mask, smiles for the camera - and all the teeth and matches in the keyboard
but, every now and then, around her - the mask slips and I feel a cold fingernail push into my heart
freezing the breath in my chest
and brittle bones creak under the pressure as I struggle, vainly, to draw air into these tired lungs
and even then i get nothing other then a mouthful of ash
it's so quiet I can hear my cigarette burning as I bring it to my mouth
crisp, still heat that sears my lips as i drag away to the butt
eager for that finality, that satisfying stab as i crush it to a hard coal in the ashtray
if only everything else was so easy
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