Wrinkled Curtains

it would make sense if you were dead

but you're not

all the pretty memories, perhaps, maybe, would stay alive

but they don't

behind your wrinkled curtains lies the black

the raw shitty self

no god can take away your guilt

i sit peeling a boiled egg staring into your truth

i can see right through your tattered fabric

the light is weak

but i see clearly now

how pitiful it is to be you