everyone dies eventuallyMature

there is salt in my mouth
and I don’t know if it is there in mourning
or cleansing or just to wash out the taste
of these syllables that go rotten hanging 
from the roof of my mouth like bats.
You are leaning over, peering into the grave,
all breathing mask and cut-open chest
like that Operation game I played when
I was young enough to still call you Dad,
young enough to not know any better,
and I am thinking about the smell of piss
and the taste of hatred and all I can hear
is the sound of the heart monitor.

The End

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