Packages With Bullet Holes

I gulp down the bile rising in my throat from
the alcohol I vehemently consumed, over and
over, blocking (or rather derogating) the veracity
of the man who tethered a war with eloquence only
to deteriorate my existence; it was humorous, really,
how it had been there the whole time, gnawing,
jabbing, scarring him inside, until he finally threw
me the steel rods and battle horses, and valiant
eagles which flew with grace and beauty; it was
a sad, heartbreaking war where I didn’t fight back
because I remember the last time when I had won
and slipped away in the blink of an eye, and how 
it had left him flummoxed and angry. I’m glad he
raged a war with me instead of one with himself,
I am glad I could walk away from it even now,
as I had then, but of course with the bottle of 
scotch to aid my ail of agony which burned,
because my brother sent a bunch of my favourite
raspberries along with the arrows and bullets from guns.


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