I’ve lost count of the number of
bridges I’ve burnt,
sort of like that number of partners
you’ve been with;
it becomes irrelevant at some point.
I burned them like I was being chased
by some unwanted baby mama(s).
in all fairness, once you’ve crossed
what’s the point of keeping it there?
a connection to what’s behind us
is the only thing holding us back.
so I say,
burn those mutha fucking bridges
down till your eyelashes and eyebrows
are singed off
and your nose is filled with the foul
odor of burned follicle:
it only smells that awful because
that was the nasty shit hanging on
to you, not wanting to let go.