Love me

Like the old suitcase I've

Become, propped up in

The attic, a reminder of

Good times gathering moths.

Some churlish refrain

Keeping you up on certain

Well-lit, loping nights,

Scrolling through a phone

Branded to your skin.

Love me like a landmine

You forgot you buried

Twenty years ago, that

Deigns to find your heart

Severed from the flesh.

Wilted like Waldorf lettuce

At the bottom of a garbage

Bag torn open by a family

Of raccoons, feasting on

The wealth-ridden's

Soggy flotsam. Love me

Like a scab picked to the bone.