La Tigre

The sometimes traumatic

and oftentimes familiar scent

of bullshit can come out of nowhere

and blindside you with a haymaker,

like a fragrant bully whose only goal

is to steal the change you’ve made

during the overtime shift of your life.

Dinner dates at a mutually favorite

restaurant, where you’re served

an appetizer of bullshit over conversations

about leaving the past dead in a hole,

covered up with the soft dirt of a promised


Undercover bullshit disguised as intimacy,

masquerading around while you hold hands

and share kisses amongst the crowd

without a devil’s care.

Weaponized love like buckshot

fired from a Remington,

wounding you like a lost animal

that wanders through luminescent fields of

bullshit in search of the warm safety

of home.

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