i am in a box full of sewing needles,
the sharp tips pricking my knees as i crouch
positioning myself to be able to see you through the narrow viewpoint.
a single needle in a well-placed position
can drive itself through my eye socket,
into my brain,
and potentially **** me.
and yet i watch you because like the innocent child i am you gave me *******, telling me it was sugar,
you gave me an addiction and said it was your heart.
i know better now but standing outside your window on a snowy summer's day,
catching glimpses of you and storing them in my happy place
(which has by now become a not-so-happy place, just a place where i can maybe catch a little relief from the blistering cold before i burn)
i do not know better,
i only know you.
you are made of all the sickly sweet things in the world,
an overpowering taste that lingers on my tongue, and i crave more of you.
like faerie fruit,
for once a paper is lit it will burn and burn and burn until something blows it out or else it dies.
and when you come down to it, that is what i am doing,
i am dying internally, necrosis of the brain, rot of the soul
and it all tastes like cough syrup,
like dead baby birds that fell out of their nests on rainy days,
and like you.
i wish i could say you were my sunshine (my only sunshine) just like the nursery rhyme they sang to get us to just shut up and go to sleep when we were four, but instead you're something like a tan, like something that looks beautiful while you last and then ends up and gives me skin cancer,
you will be the death of me as sure as the moon orbits the earth, as sure as everything i have ever known, and when i go down, instead of your sickly sweet flavor dancing on my taste buds,
there'll be charred paper and rotten apples.