My Fist Smells Like Graveyard

claim your place as victim in the perverse knowledge of 
something to fall back on with hands held so loosely as i 
pour the water through so many times i tried not to wonder 
conflicts avoided words mumbled under breath truth buried 
out behind a face the advantage taken with no thought to 
rectify when the well is dry they will reattach themselves 
and again the face smiles but not to mine