sometimes,
I think,
that maybe,
perhaps,
I should be wrapped in bubble wrap,
a makeshift armor
for the jagged world.
because I am fragile—
like aged porcelain dolls,
cracked eyes
tainted lips,
staring blankly at truths
they'll never tell.
we sat in circles,
confessing sins
or inventing them,
clinging to the lie of purpose.
she breathed in the dust,
the light of the cheap bulb,
while the burning liquor
erased us,
dare by dare.
alive until morning—
skin against skin,
clothes torn away,
as if the nakedness
could make us real.
but there was no beauty,
just the sound of breaths,
and the pooling remains
of something
we once thought...but no longer
was love.