she tears
into it
with rusty
dull tools.
pain flows
like a slow
spring stream
and no one
smiles round
here anymore.
it soaks
through
everything.

there is
really
no use in
hiding
anything.
without
exception,
it is always
the same.

we build
addictions
and routines
as skyscrapers
and
monuments.
we swear on
the graves
of mothers
and saints,
that there
is no way
in hell
we'll succumb
to all
of this
again.