From Beneath Yellow Suns

June 13, 2011
Trudge over to the bench
The little mesh blue one
Where we always
Like to sit.

I guess this must
Be said.
And done.
No more walking lazily
Around this bush.

I open my mouth for
The acid
To drip from it.
The truth

You look down at your
Chipped yellow
Fingernail polish.
Ten cold glowing suns.

The honesty cuts
The earnest eyes
Me like
Black cars
On hot days.

The yellow suns
Pick at a weed in the grass
Uprooting it.
The same way they twist my soul
Its dirt of lies.

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