Each thank you on the plastic bag diminishes return
the handles leave my fingers bloodless, purple, and taciturn
circulation terminates, as if by plunging vultures
and I don’t think I’m ready to lay it all on the alter
You were the blood pumping in my skinny wrists
I want to bust the ghost of you,
but throbbing, you persist
I’m a pawn American, my aunt’s pomeranians haunt
post-cake paper plates of waning parties
where the air is tired and gaunt
A living room strewn with Balloons,
a monument to celebration,
within days succumbs and becomes one to deflation
You were the blood pumping in my skinny wrists
I want to bust the ghost of you,
but throbbing, it persists
You were the blood pumping in my skinny wrists
Never again can I check my pulse
not reminded you exist
you were the blood,
you were the blood
and I was dumb, to think I was special
you were the blood
and I was but a vessel
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