Ex-wives and shopping carts
Litter the alley like candy from a parade
All the broken bits of something that used to be
Vagrants and assholes pick at the bottom of their shoes
For the less dirty parts.
The less infected things you died for.
I don’t feel comfortable in this skin
Molting my father’s sins
Loosing my genetic wiring.
Ancestuous fucks all the same
We look into our family album mirror
And bleed a little more gently
This parable gets retold a lot
When you’re sitting around the martyr’s campfire
Sparks of spit and teeth
Glitter in the gleam of contrasted light.
I can be proud without looking around
I already know no ones watching.
