From catskill
twenty three
you came home
to lynch me
but that is not
what i remember most
that is the sweet sound of my fleeting ghost
we put angels in the ground
there was a picnic table
where i wrote my name
dressed myself in broken glass
so i could feel your pain
you loved the good days
when the snow would start to melt
you got dealt such dirty wounds
and then you let me clean them out
well who the fuck am i?
