Whittemore

I am the bastard son Of privilege, {Vapid indifference} Of narcissism Of {Indulgence} This narration Slightly unreliable A handset with no speaker {Pushing dead air} Suppressed Epiphany Whimpers and cries {I didn't want to know} Hid it away {Whittemore} {Whittemore} I wish I could say it was fun At a lone window peering out The eight {too much} Too much It was never survival Never a want Warmth, no hunger Oh why was I sad? {Whittemore} {Whittemore} Humming {Humming} The red The beds The popular spot The hidden away rot {Whittemore} {Whittemore} A street where no one stays Except one Erased our existence Eight years You think all is yours? {Not me} {Not her} {Not them} {Not you most of all} The drive back stifles {That's two for flinchin'} {Whittemore} {Whittemore} {Whittemore} {Whittemore}