Let's have a quiet talk
Among our thoughts
In dreams spread far apart,
And come together
To see our distance
In simulations.

Your face is caked into impressions;
My nights had gone so long without
Sleep like this,
But if you are to litter my mind,
I can only ask for you
To let me do the same.

Sleep with images of me,
Burn them in your head,
Remind yourself how I looked
How I sound
How I feel;
Do not let your image torture me alone.

Have nightmares without me,
Find your soul shaken,
Your bones rattled,
Your skin cold and clammy;
Get uncomfortable with me,
For me,
Because of me.

This regret should linger and sour.

Every time I see you,
You should see me,
For every pang of guilt,
I hope you rot a little more,
I hope you never recover,
I hope you find discomfort in it all.

Meet me in the alleys of thought
Just so I may watch you suffer
Like I have.

Wake up in hopes you never have to sleep again.

I don't make art anymore.
It's so tedious and eats up a part of me
that I can barely hold up.

I'd rather just be a resting body,
but that route seems to cause just the same
discomfort.

Tired, irritable; I want to do as much
as I do not,
and I feel like all my time goes to waste.

My reflection isn't me;
I feel like I am five
years younger than I am.
My art is fueled by the discordance
which makes it so hard to make or write.

I fluctuate:
okay to awful,
to make to give up,
I'm me, who is she?
I don't make art anymore.

There I was.
Resting.
You remember, don't you?

Me; nuzzled into the crook of your neck,
my hands gripping at your shirt...
you fancied it, you know.

The embrace was warm,
and our heartbeats may have synchronized
in hopes of lulling us to sleep.

You remember all of this,
I'm certain,
but there are some things
you don't.

At approximately five or so minutes
before I buried my swollen, dark, brown eyes
into your chest,
I was choking back tears.

Every time I hugged you,
it dulled my depression just enough
for me to pretend my heart
didn't live like someone was having
a boxing match with both atriums and the aorta;
no, it was a searing pain that dulled
in moments like these,
replaced with a suffocating tension.

I knew as soon as I left you,
I would be shaking,
on the ground in panic
or digging my nails into the utmost layers
of my body;
you didn't know that this moment we shared
was more about me
masking how much pain I regularly endured,
and about using you to soothe my psyche enough
to pretend I was alright.

These puppet string are held by me,
I’d say I’ve lost my grip,
this autopilot hand-fidget has really gone to ****.

I don’t feel the same anymore,
nothing bubbles in my chest,
but who’s to say I cannot feel
if its only feeling is in my head?

Hello, how are you?
I’m doing simple math,
The strings aren’t taut and funny how
every movement is an act.

The doll’s alive, and she does dance
but watch at your discretion,
because if you knew her once before
she isn’t the same person.

Cold as ice and cold as sin
a man that lost shouldn't've been
but he played his cards
and he played them right
cause nothing touches a man
cold as ice.