What is more deluded and ironic than me?

even as I ribbon and curl up in the dusty heat
of my attic
heaped where memory and shadow marry smoke to mirrors
and any juror cornered knows
which way the wind blows coercion
or which way intention sells little pieces of the many hollows of my heart to pay for what I think I desire, to pay for something that doesnt need the sugars or fires I bleed out with my entrails, where continuance is a dull knife gnawing away at anything that bears feeling, anything that might be real enough not to have to paint over with words...