These days

My therapist told me that all of the girls I love are ghosts
So I asked her to smash my head against the wall
I figured it wouldn't be a tall order
And even then I still stumble over my own tongue
And even now I sit swooning with off-tune ramblings shattering my eyes
Soon I might fall to the ground as my knees buckle 
I still get that restless feeling, deep within the marrow of my arms
As the flashes of what seems to be millennia ago, when viscera flowed from my arms and chest
The sign stays dimly lit with the sanity that my mother lost in my throat
Cold dead streets haunt my heart with the belligerence of a drunkard with an Irish crutch
A semblance of the room that used to hold my mind
paints the walls
and terribly paints my mother's own body
a shocked horror runs down the spine of that old town
and with that across the road I hear muffled screams of the shopkeepers and their newly widowed wives