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 rob you of the loose change you’ve made
during the overtime shift of 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.
Life makes new,
it washes clean,
it makes more room for new bullshit.
Undercover bullshit disguised as intimacy,
masquerading around while you hold hands
and share kisses amongst the crowd
before the verbal knife stabs your chest
and makes your shipwrecked heart sink
to the depths of a knotted stomach.
Weaponized love,
fired like buckshot from a Remington.
You stagger and fall,
wishing for bullshit
but resuscitated by the truth.
The Follies of a Postmodern Xennial 