You're rough yet melodic,
the strings of a guitar creating callouses as they emit the cries of busted angels.
We'll just wrap it in gauze and hope no one notices.
But my makeshift cover is as false as your essence,
rotten from your methamphetamine smile down to your heart.
We make stops in between.
You're like a collage of broken;
a standing reminder of all the dangers parents warn their children of;
an orgy of all things hopeless.
But who warns children of the dangers of parents?
On the subject of the past-
Fuck your fine-print candy.
There's always a catch.
And now we can move on.
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