At night, that night.
Blurting out wordlessness, sick of the same sounds.
Stop it, just stop it. Stop stop stop it! These, these…
tight circles. The past… the tail. Us… dogs–
cork-screwing ourselves over and over again.
Cliched… enough is enough; let it rest; let it die.
And the scars, they sing the saddest songs, ballads,
recreating themselves, sorely, to fit their creation.
This mourning has got to end; the morning comes.
Even salt, in the wounds, in the eyes, isn’t enough.
So salt, there is no need for you. Heartache is yours.