The wires in your skin are so taut.

I could make music

If I tried.

Your words charmingly burn my

Finger petals,

Harmless roses, paralyzed.

Whether you fathom me or not,

I’m aware of

The ill will that you’ve got

Fermenating in the still

Above your lips.

I hate

The idea of becoming addicted to

That slop.

Watching porcelain crack;

Feeling every day like a frayed relapse.

I’m not alone in the weird game,

I’m fighting all of my own pain.


Let myself and its abhorrent idealism go.

I’ll be thankful once I know

A world beyond you.


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