My stomach’s turning with the changing of tides,
my eyes safe only because they’ve already burned away with salt water and suicide.
This island holds its chest high with hamburgers and sunsets
while dirty orgies of blondes rot the beaches.
Spirits run down my chin, my hair aflame with cigarettes,
and Holocaust survivors are crying at my music,
even the music in our voices,
and the voices in our mouths,
all like pangs of guilt at burning moths.
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