Everyone Is To Blame

I make you half-filled cups, in which the water barely soaks the bags I dip, and these are each nondescript flavours and you take deeper swigs than you’d need to if I brim-filled it, knew what I was doing, except I do, and the purposeful pour is control I execute over us like the lies which are list-worthy, committed to memory, in fact penetrable, confession ready, hell-takers, tie-breakers. In fact, if this is a tie, this one year, a little more, a TV time three-year fuck-up, then my rosary beads will fucking burn the scars on your feet until the on-top scars cover ones the other girls left, the girls who are women now because it’s so long since they got paid off with babies they didn’t have but did but you don’t know if they did but they did. You are so much older than me.

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