and we thought that when the war was over the blood would all flow backwards, and we were wrong

or living like a wounded animal, which

isn’t really the same thing as living,
but there you are in your collapsing hole
with your open wounds and your blood trail

here we are after 25 years of winter

½ a lifetime spent digging at the same

small patch of frozen ground with bare hands

low tide

faulty compass

and what i find out too late is

that anger isn’t enough

is that silence isn’t an alternative to

suicide, but a slower version of it and so
                                            we scream
 

we make ourselves such easy targets

open the door and all of that pale, blinding

sunlight just blows holes straight through you