taken by those not trusted to honor it in the first place
the living being more important than the dying
a bed breaking during wild passion
then turning into a coffin.
Everything changes when you can't hold your own glass
when your friends move
and sisters die
or presidents are shot.
There's nothing special about me.
Why did I ever think there was?
My face deep with lines
my wishes turning to regrets
pealing my skin like an unripe orange.
I'm surprised by how painful that can be.
I hold that close
like devotion parting for good.
I'm angry at the waste I've become.
It brings out my cruelest side
that I keep hidden
in the hidden closet
of my closet.
And friends stay away
and lovers pray
promises of better tomorrows on everyone's tongue
but still my heart beats too hard
and my jaws clench
and I can't help but wonder
who will hold the glass for me?