All your stupid friends were wrong,

are wrong,

and will never

grow up

learn the difference between

something real and fake

breathing.

 

How many head boards did it take

to alter her brain

– either way

she hit more than was necessary – 

and you can take that to the bank

though not the bank she would favour.

 

And what mud slinging mattered

on late nights where idiocy is laid bare

and honesty rolls off the tip of the tongue

– which has more uses than she would lead you to believe –

she was never much for talking,

never having much to say.

 

A rant of razors,

dagger words slicing their way to the

core

and what matters.

 

Who are the you in ‘your,’

as if there was a Sherlockian puzzle to solve,

but like Doyle I haven’t laid bare all the required pieces.

 

There is implication,

but it is a falsehood,

because it isn’t about you or who you may think.

 

And who cares?