The Truth

I press your photos to my face.
The anger burns into my bones.
I am *worse* than half a man,
hopeless prayers,
written wrong,
worth the effort to erase.

Words were never
“Hands that held you”,
Magic spells
or silver songs.
They told a tired story
To a crowd that barely heard.

And nothing changes
that I’m lost.
Even when I dream a voice
That’s loud enough to hear,
I wake to find it dying
down to silence,
unperceived.

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