Negative Enzymes

your face is a hole in the ground
and I'm not stepping in it

nor am I filling it with water
or soil or anything like that

I shall pay it no attention more

the yelling, yeah it's a little hard to take seriously
but the sentiments are sincere, sincere and exhausted

we both know we're good at stripping other peoples' wires
what new do we gain by re-enacting it?

your mother is gone, soon mine will be too
one less person who, beyond having the bandwidth, actually cares

whether we as fucked up, amazingly creative, 
people will actually do better

than just survive, beyond 
not stabbing ourselves with knives

causing our own bodily distress with all the lies
we tell in silent whispers every minute of all the time

your eyes didn't show any kind of surprise
your gestures seemed slow and rehearsed, sadly tired

so familiar, so nostalgic
so hungry for this damaged routine

I fell for it, just like with my mother
raised my temper, then my voice (or was it the other order?)

your will is your own
as mine is mine

kicking holes in the speakers
don't make them louder

everything dying away from you, 
from us, not really dying 

but doing a life-saving 
job of pretending

withering then 
escaping into rest

into a world that shines with light and acceptance
that shares, loves, and makes friends with

our reality more like a martial arts movie
all bursts of air and violent shifting

gestures honed
slices rendered 

economical
with minimal exertion

causing damage, sure
there's history

a traceable lineage 
of secret societies 

carefully killing people
under the guise of refined art

no more than your face empty
where a hole used to be