Angsty at 23

My mother used to lay
a washcloth over her
freshly baked birthday cakes
so bugs wouldn't
drown over it, ruining
her hard worked sweets.

Sometimes, little black flies
would walk over those
blue and green mountains
rubbing their hands,
completely oblivious
of the flour and sugar paradise
that hid unconquered under them.

We really wish
that ignorance ours
for hell is too certain for man.
But we sure have tried to
wane that certainty
rubbing our hands over
these wasted washcloth
cities, praying our lives away
begging for that big share
of heavenly pie.

I'm deeply ashamed of us.

We're all
goddamned
fucking
flies.