I sit in a swing, watching the house burn, the house where we were children.
Slowly push my self back and forth on tired legs, to dissassociative to care.
I’m watching myself, the orange flames ripping open the night on my face.
I’m a tin dime angel, addled brain almost touching heaven, which the flames reach.
I know you’re up in the sky, the eye in the moon, the listening dish, Sea of Tranquility.
You have that pilots clearance and the love of all that’s holy, good little princess.
I might have gotten something in my mind from kissing your older sister, a tumor.
I’m like neither of you, neither saint or demon, just at a loss for who to breathe in.
The house burns and I don’t care, not even my revenge gives me any feeling here.
I still float, brain damage and alcohol making me float, far away from you, in Tranquility.
The ashes always become embers, and I can never be free, my demons are invincible.
The Raptors are scrambled to take me to hell, still better than being a drone like you.
Still I have the name of love carved in my belly, without your name beside it.