marked

the hurting you’re merking,
how you dish out your dirt, in
creasing the stakes,
these flakes that you mate with,
the bait that you rate
and the work that you’re late with,
raking up the past,
because you can’t face your face still.

you’re down for double murder,
and your flavour is flawed,
a fraudulent love at home and ignored,
desperately living, clinging to two fates:
exhaustion towards your dismissive display,
your warm welcome’s out, standing,
your game’s, out, played.