You Wanted a Fallout Boy Song About You, and Fuck It, Now You’ve Got One

Kicked each other in our lowest moments.

We’ve both got our share of Hail Mary’s to
perform.

You built  a temple of scorn out of my flesh,
and I gladly supplied the eyeballs and blood-vessels
for your centerpiece.

I built an altar to resentment, and
you gave me your ventricles for the Sistine
ceiling; and your
agony was practically acting in a synesthetic
capacity
for all the words I should’ve put
in parentheses.

And it doesn’t matter if you
go on
to fuck the whole world,

we both know that I will never
be just a notch in your bedpost;

And it doesn’t matter if I
go on
to win a Pulitzer
you will never 
be just a line in a song.

Because 
I wake up every morning
and I hate the sunrise; and 
you take every silver bullet you’ve got left
and you picture me in the ironsights.

But fuck the cliches
about hindsight being twenty-twenty — I dare
you to pull the trigger
and forget this twenty-something
poet
with the eyes glowing at a thousand degrees
Fahrenheit.

We both know you’ll fail.

So play that punk-rock album
a little fucking louder

and try to make it 
about something
other 
than
me.

Willie Watt
02.06.17

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