Number Five

This family is as good as dead
And your exactly where we want you
Ignore the blades in your bed
They only cut you where you want to

Your empty laugh
An epitaph
A photograph
A parasite

We sit and tables and don’t speak
In front of meals we never fucking eat
Bloated from swallowing words
And push the leftovers inside the seat

When did I have to start begging
For a single scrap of sentiment
Let’s automate the embedding
till it becomes an impediment

When did I have to start begging
To return my devotion
Why would I stab you in the back
When you’ve got so many faces to choose from

Your empty laugh
An epitaph that’s written on
A photograph
A parasite born backwards on
The second Sunday
And then refused to die again
Maybe one day
I’ll force you back down the drain