Our Numbered Days

This is what our lives have come to-
We turn our backs and we go to sleep,
Our spouses suffering from anxieties,
Searching in our eyes for those scattered tit-bits of love,
That may have survived the battle for rent and groceries.

This is what our lives have come to-
We switch our TVs off
And we go to bed.
Somewhere a naked child trembles like a dying fish,
Somewhere a mother eats the flesh of her son to live.
But we set our alarms for the morning prayers,
Somewhere some God mocks our shit.

This is what our lives have come to-
We finish our breakfast and leave for work,
Wondering if we should kiss our child goodbye.
Our child locks himself behind closed doors,
Planning of ways to kill himself:
Blade, poison, or simply hang his worthlessness,
Deciding the postures of his own dead body:
Scary, grotesque, drunk, or sexy.
The last time his parents should see him,
Somewhat sober, maybe?
Should he have kissed them goodbye?

This is what our lives have come to-
Fixing each other’s brokenness with our souls,
We are after all looking for home.
How we forget our demons inside:
The cobwebs,
Creaking windows,
And the crooked floor.
How we forget that haunted houses do not make home?

This is what our lives have come to-
We look for love in empty beer bottles,
In stock full kitchen cabinets
And put out cigarette buds,
In vacant living rooms,
And in smelly sheets of last night’s hook up,
We look for love in all the wrong places,
Not knowing where the right place is.

This is what our lives have come to-
We know no longer whether love exists,
Or where home is,
Or if one day a city will call us back,
When everything else fails.
If we will die where we were born,
Or if we were born where we died.
This is what our lives have come to-
We don’t know what we are more scared of-
Living or dying.
Never finding love or never finding home?

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