There were never any lights in your eyes,
no flames or lightning,
just smoking wicks of wrecked ambitions
where hatred struck a thousand times or maybe not at all.
Your talents were jokes that you flung from the windows
driving too fast down the highway at 3am
and drowned in whiskey and apathy.
Your style was beats with no melody,
double cuffed jeans and branded knuckles,
a collapsing mohawk to remind us all we weren’t perfect
and scuffed black combat boots for all the things you never fought for,
and for the demons you weren’t fighting because they were your only friends.
You had to be a renegade for a cause no one understood
but it never existed and mattered to no one
and that just makes you a traitor.
And we’re all a little broken I guess but the truth is
I want my skin back.
You had no right to steal my blood and my breath and
I want to look you in the eye
so that you know I see who you are
and you understand that I will never forgive you.