Jackal-lipped lovers line up to see my life on the silver screen
a broken reel waxes poetic, clippings of tattered newspaper
writhe across the empty theater, borne by a wind of regret-
it slips through the cracked open door like the impression of
something creaking on broken ankles.
My sigh fills the room, and the ghosts of my past are trolleys
into a void, one-way ticket, no refunds.
Pay the conductor a tip, and remember,
no exits are here.