Dear joy, when you die, I bury you in a matchbox in the yard and stub my cigarette out, pocking the once white pebble dash wall, like the bullet holes in my brother's chest, I see when identifying the body, making sure he's dead and that there's no hope left that it's someone else's brother, yes that I wish dead, and it's that shame revisited that strangles what joy is left, your ghost rising with the wisps from my last lit match and the crematorium smokestack, at a funeral I can't attend, so I bury you in this matchbox instead.
"Classic"
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