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I see your cracked corona

dead above your empty


It reigns dim, dark, lacking the

light of angelic truth,

swarming over you like a gloomy


People notice and pity you,

remaining silent as they let you

be because you are nothing without

your aching desire of godliness.

You think you portray goodness,

upright morality, the ability to change

others. Blinded by the once existent

light, you cannot see the truth.

We see the darkness underneath,

the swirling devilish thoughts where

your brain should be,

except you traded that to the devil

for your oh so desired God Complex.

The truth is you're just as corrupt

as the rest of us.

It takes one to know one,

and my dear what you are is

a miserable miscreant riding

out your final wishes on the

sea-like heart strings of those

you desire to fix.

With your chipped corona,

you rip through each string like a

red- hot knife.

Leaving them worse off

than when you started.

Satan knows the deal he made,

yet your mind remains trouble free

until he drags you down underneath.

Welcome to hell.

The existence of reality.

Consent is key, and hunny,

you never asked permission

to try to change people for your own good.



I hope each time you find yourself wearing shoes,

a pebble finds its way in, but you are unable to

seek it. Feeling it roll under your foot, pricking it with

each step, but its lack of presence makes you question

your sanity.

I hope each yellow traffic light that you drive toward

turns red just as you think you could make it through.

That you have to step on the breaks just hard enough

to send your head backwards against the headrest of

the driver's seat.

I hope every time you use the bathroom, there is nothing

but a single square sheet left on the roll, and

the rest of your stock has been depleted. That no one

is home to help you and you are left sitting in your

own misery.

I hope cartons of milk are sour each time you open

them to make your morning bowl of cereal,

the sour scent filtrating through your nose.

That maybe-- just maybe it’ll curdle into chunks

and you will have to get rid of it on your own.

I hope you always come up a penny short when

you go to a store, and the cashier gives you a

hard time about it. That no matter how much you

prepare yourself with endless pockets of change,

life finds another way to screw you over.

I hope when you lie in bed at night you feel

crumbs touching your bare skin, but you can’t

find them in your bed sheets. That the crumbs

scratch your skin, leaving subtle reminders

of your own wrongdoing.

I hope you always get paper cuts between your

fingers rather than along your fingertips.

I know you always hated that. I can remember

you cursing and whining like a child each time

it happened.

I hope when you go to make your morning pot of

coffee you pour salt in it by mistake. That you take

a big sip just to find the taste of the ocean lingering

at the top of your coffee cup.

I hope each of your alarms never go off,

and your clocks are always running ten

minutes early. You will be late for everything.

Not that you were ever on time.

I hope the hole in your bedroom wall reminds you of how you

treated me. That the blow you took at the drywall lingers in

the base of your stomach, dull, achy, the feel of existential

anxiety clinging to your chest.

I hope each time you mention my name, melancholy

hangs in your mouth, leaving a battery acid

taste that you can never get rid of. Each time you

tell your story, you’re the victim. You lie.


Sam Zimmerman is a Contributing Editor for Pine Hills Review and a current graduate student at SUNY New Paltz. She loves experimenting with different types of poetry and writing creative nonfiction. Her work has been featured in Sledgehammer Lit. She currently resides in a small town in the middle of nowhere in New York. You can keep up with her on Twitter.

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