Saying You’re Dead to Me Overstates Your Importance

I probably should have been upset by the fact that my father is dead
to me. But instead of moping I went out singing about bashing him in the head.
All I can do is smile in the self-inflicted sunshine
as he stains his pillows red. The closest I came
to giving a damn was when I was afraid I’d be hit for
homicide. Maybe I should feel something now. But I don’t.
I don’t care except to get my old guitars from his place.
Anger, joy, pathos writ large are just offline
like his head. Woops.

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