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.

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