On the first day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
a heart still barely breathing.

On the second day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
broken, bleeding parts
and a heart still barely breathing.

On the third day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
a chill in the air
broken, bleeding parts
and a heart still barely breathing.

On the fourth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
all this does is hurt
a chill in the air
broken, bleeding parts
and a heart still barely breathing.

On the fifth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
a touch that still stings
all this does is hurt
a chill in the air
broken, bleeding parts
and a heart still barely breathing.

On the sixth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
leering lullabies
a touch that still stings
all this does is hurt
a chill in the air
broken, bleeding parts
and a heart still barely breathing.

On the seventh day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
scattered, insane
leering lullabies
a touch that still stings
all this does is hurt
a chill in the air
broken, bleeding parts
and a heart still barely breathing.

On the eighth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
bullets in my brain
scattered, insane
leering lullabies
a touch that still stings
all this does is hurt
a chill in the air
broken, bleeding parts
and a heart still barely breathing.

On the ninth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
coffin to lie in
bullets in my brain
scattered, insane
leering lullabies
a touch that still stings
all this does is hurt
a chill in the air
broken, bleeding parts
and a heart still barely breathing.

On the tenth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
lies that I drown in
coffin to lie in
bullets in my brain
scattered, insane
leering lullabies
a touch that still stings
all this does is hurt
a chill in the air
broken, bleeding parts
and a heart still barely breathing.

On the eleventh day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
ears that keep ringing
lies that I drown in
coffin to lie in
bullets in my brain
scattered, insane
leering lullabies
a touch that still stings
all this does is hurt
a chill in the air
broken, bleeding parts
and a heart still barely breathing.

On the twelfth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
tears that won’t stop spilling
ears that keep ringing
lies that I drown in
coffin to lie in
bullets in my brain
scattered, insane
leering lullabies
a touch that still stings
all this does is hurt
a chill in the air
broken, bleeding parts
and a heart still barely breathing.

Don't let them see what lies in the depths of your bottomless orbs, conceal it behind contact lenses and a thousand coats of mascara. Dab concealer on to cover up those blemishes – cower behind foundation because you can't let them spot those flaws. Mask the tremble in your voice with raucous laughter and disguise the shadows which throttle you constantly with saccharine expressions and pretty, brightly-coloured smiles. Hide behind your layer of lies which hugs you so tight you can't breathe. Is that imperfect perfection I smell in the air? Or is that your fabric freshener? They're the same, anyway.

time is like the fire
of a burning forest:
you blaze but you
do not burn –
instead it eats you
inside out.

BUT NOTICE THE WAY HE TURNS A CERTAIN SHADE OF BITTERNESS AS HE WATCHES HER PALE FINGERS INTERTWINE WITH SOMEONE ELSE'S