Crutching my way through the days,
until you come back this way.

Sleepless, harangued, hungry, tight.
Will I make it to the shore without your light?

Shudder the alarms,
I won't burden you with this weight
so fly
free
and come
back to
me.

The lens is out of focus,
for the first time,
the lens is out of focus.

This mixture of metol and phenidone is making
the edges show
clearer.

So hold me down,
run your fingers across me,
and I'll slide right into focus.

I was dreaming of things I didn't want to,
and woke towards your comfort

but it wasn't there

and that's what has hurt the most,
so far.

You burn them all away, keep me safe.
I wear you, I use you,
the only thing that is keeping me

together.

Like a woven basket falling

apart,

you thread me like a needle
when there is no capable shopkeeper.

You are a safe place to land what's inside my head,
you understand the circuitry inside this machine
because yours is the same.

I am writing words because speech is often too much. Writing to a black haired girl I have dreamt of, damage done. Aloe shatters in an explosion of feathers, lost out in between my tears. My weakness is something I call a strength, what broke was tempered steel beneath her gaze, wide-eyed in love. The Mother Mori bends her back, back at me again and I enter her, conquered. Do you even read me? I've started moving from your well of gravity and am writing a story of my life with myself as my own unreliable narrator. Would I slide into you? When it's never been a problem, the lack of your insides wrapped around me suddenly becomes one. Butterflies flutter around the butter that has begun oozing from the wound you have made in me, like a sweetly scented rot, a gorgeous gangrenous gap in my skin, attracting flies. When speech becomes too much, I write. You brought me to life by reading me. When you don't read, this dies.

Blankets never had it so good,
and I just need someone to hold.