Killers don't cry

Our demons would think us to be heroes,
but we're just disillusioned drug dealers
with bruised egos.

Some of us sold our allegiances to strangers
for paisley patterned belongings.
We all wore black to confront the beyond-
sheltering ourselves from the scrutiny
of whoever was watching with a cloak of darkness.

Tears are death warrants.

Only the heartless survive,
in spite of their physiological flaws.
As I stood in front of the congregation,
trying to make sense of our losses,
I lost it.

The bouquet-covered altar blurred
like the subdued sentiments of despondence.
I looked out into the crowd.
And the tears started falling.

"We are all dead men walking.
This life only lasts so long,
especially when you keep swallowing
the salt on your wounds."